


In Another World

by fenkyuubi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bittersweet, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lavellan/Solas Fluff (Dragon Age), Love, M/M, Sad and Sweet, Second Chances, Solas Fluff Friday, Teaching, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 50,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenkyuubi/pseuds/fenkyuubi
Summary: It’s been ten years since that day. Ten years since she saved the world. Ten years since she killed her heart.Continuation from #SolavellanHellArtChallenge2020 - Solavellan.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Female Mage Lavellan & Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Lavellan & Solas
Comments: 251
Kudos: 134





	1. In War, Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by a one-shot I wrote for the Solavellanchallenge2020 "Solavellan" entry. There were questions whether I would continue it and I thought - why the fuck not? Writing sad Solas things? What a way to enjoy my redundancy, haha!
> 
> Another World takes place in the future - ten years to be precise (have changed it from 20). It will follow the Inquisitor and some of its dashing members. I don't want to reveal too much, but if you've read the original fic, you have an idea of where this is going.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! Every kudos and comment adds +constitution and +sanity to this old lady. 
> 
> For anyone looking to go straight to Solas stuff: [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24229753/chapters/58733770).
> 
> Big props to FenxShiral and their [Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language](https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061). It's really such a wonderful thing to have.
> 
> Image by the impossibly talented [Eva Soulu](https://www.instagram.com/eva_soulu/) for this piece. Please enjoy, commission her, and don't steal! 🤠

[ ](https://ibb.co/3hkmpQ0)

Blood dries beneath her fingernails. It sticks to her hair, her eyelashes, and gleams like rust on her armor. With a grunt, Rosa drags Solas on to her legs. 

Ropes of blood weave through etchings in the stone floor, drawn to other bodies like rivers to a confluence. Around them, there is only death. The vestibule reeks of it, of torn and taken lives draining into the rocks. But there is hope yet—a tiny spark that lingers in the fallen's shallow breaths, in the labored rise of their chests. She doesn't have much time to help, _but Solas is_ —

Cold fingers caress her jaw. They search her skin with tentative touches, smearing dirt and grime across her chin. She wonders how she must look to him. Her face is a tapestry of slaughter, a patchwork of blood and grime and dust. With a frown, she thinks death and destruction has become her signature, a trademark as much as a Dwarven beard or an Orlesian mask. 

Rosa takes his hand in hers and draws it to her lips. They are stained, sticky, and broken. Fingers sure and proud and steadfast that created music, summoned magic, and painted masterpieces. Fingers that curled in her hair; flattened against the back of her neck; that danced along her flesh. A sob catches in her chest like an angry hiccup. 

His head lolls. He smiles. "Shh, vhenan," he coos. He is quiet—so quiet—but Rosa hears his pain, hears the liquid gurgling in the back of his throat. Solas' leather cuirass is brown and increasingly red. Blood ripples out from the wound in his stomach, crawling across the surface like an infection. The hilt of the dagger glints in the dark. 

"Why?" she wheezes. Anguish coils in her gut while hopelessness takes root in her heart. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"I could never kill you."

A cough spews from his lips. It's thick and troubled and reminds her of sick old men on cold winter nights. It’s more than she can bear. The tears fall quickly now, splattering on his brow. "This will kill me”.

"Mala suledin nadas. You _must_ , for us both." 

Sweat and blood drip into her eyes. She blinks against the sting of salt. "I can't—not without you."

It takes him a moment to respond. Discomfort clouds his eyes and contorts his lips in a scowl. He forces a weak smile that shakes the corners of his mouth. "My rare and marvelous spirit, do you remember what I told you?" He beckons her closer with a gesture and captures her lips in a kiss. Their first in so many years—their last.

When she pulls away, his breath is warm against her mouth. 

"In another world..."

* * *

Rosa wakes in a bed both foreign and familiar. As the haze of sleep lifts, she recognizes her room and its hallmarks: the flaking yellow wallpaper and uninspired landscape portraits. The open window taps against the wall. 

The edge of the moon peaks out of the corner of the window frame. It is bright and cold and makes her think of his smile, of his pale skin, of his silly bald head; of little square teeth beaded with blood—

She winces. Stops. Collects with a breath—just as Cassandra taught her—but it doesn't help. Tension knots in her throat, threatening to spill over in a cry, in a flood of angry tears. Rosa reaches under the pillow beside her. She finds the necklace and pulls. 

The wolf's mandible is broken. It is missing teeth and part of its jaw. Bone has splintered off the notch. In places, there are patches of dull, stained blood—his blood. She grips it firmly, feels molars, incisors, and canines dig into her palm. The ache is a strange comfort that breaks the tightness in her chest. 

It's been ten years since that day. Ten years since she saved the world. Ten years since she killed her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosa - to endure  
> Mala suledin nadas - now you must endure


	2. Pride's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor returns to Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lifted the idea of "Pride's End" from Bonfire Night (Nov 5th). A day for celebrating Solas' defeat by burning effigies of him. I thought it would be a cruel reminder for Lavellan of her sacrifice. 
> 
> There's a small detail from Tevinter Nights here, as well. :)

The shawl around her neck itches, but she pulls it close. The mountain winds are crisp, and Rosa is too old and weary to brave the Frostbacks without it. 

An innkeeper watches from behind the bar, a cleaning cloth draped over the mug in his hands. "G'mornin'," he says. Two bottom teeth are missing, making his grin look unnaturally wide. "Happy Pride's End."

Her walking stick thuds as she turns to face him. She returns the greeting with a smile. Rosa prefers their term—Solas Ha'lam tastes like ash on her tongue. 

Children scamper down the stairs. From the way the man scowls, she decides they must be his. As their peals of laughter rip through the tavern, his expression softens. In their hands are a pair of small straw effigies. Tonight they will burn, as has become custom. 

He tips his mug as they pass. "You celebratin' tonight?"

"In a manner of speaking. It's my birthday, too."

"Double celebration, eh? Well, if yer return tonight, you'll 'ave an ale waitin' for ya."

He had a kind face, she thinks—round, with thin, dark hair and wobbly jowls. "That's very sweet, but I won't be returning—not for a few days, at least."

"Shame. You heading to Jader?" he gestures with a nod towards the sea. "They' ave a hell off'a bonfire."

Her mood tries to sour. She doesn't let it, even as his earnest, ignorant grin sends shivers up her spine. As much as she resents him for it, she recognizes the futility of her ire. Pride's End is a public holiday—all Thedosians celebrate it. And why wouldn't they? Who wouldn't honor the demise of a would-be destroyer? Rosa offers him an airy laugh instead of malice, one reserved for empresses, arishoks, and kings; a laugh well honed from years of practice. "No, sadly. Too many crowds and the smoke burns my throat. I'm heading up the mountain pass."

The man's face darkens. "Up?" His eyebrows raise emphatically as if parroting the word. "Way's blocked. There's only that castle up there. Naught else." The innkeeper lowers his voice and looks around the empty tavern. "There was an incident years back. Folk says it's haunted." 

Rosa chuckles and remembers Donal's note. "It probably is, but I've got special dispensation to visit. And I won't be alone." _Hopefully._

He nods, clearly unconvinced. Narrowed eyes study Rosa with renewed interest. She recognizes his expression; she's seen it often enough. People forget things, but not as quickly as they think. A name, a face, a misplaced pouch of coins—he knows her but doesn't. Not as she is now. She braces for the question. 

"Did you werk for the ol' Inquisition then?" 

She lets out a sigh of relief. "Yes. In the infirmary."

"Noble. The world owes you a great deal, t'day especially." As she leaves, she catches the private words spoken into his chest. "I'll keep ye in my prayers, miss."

* * *

Rosa stops at midday to drink. The water-skin is cold. She laps at her refreshment with abandon, pausing only to pant between gulps. The elf is tired, more than she likes to admit. This was easier ten years ago, even with the injuries, the loss of Haven, the troop of displaced followers crooning at her back. There had been no path then—just snow and the pain of unseen stones underfoot. But they managed. 

In the distance, there is a pop. The wind carries the sound of far-flung hooting. Somewhere, in some little town, they are already celebrating. Soon, she will be too far to hear their cheering or taste the soot and smoke in the air. 

She shields her eyes and squints at the ascent. It's summer, but smatterings of loose snow hang on gnarled roots. Grooves in the road glisten with a thin coat of ice. 

Rosa collects her walking stick. The twisted wood shimmers into metal at her touch, revealing a silver staff embellished with teal runes. As she regards the Wrath of Lovias, the mage considers using a simple quickening spell to make the journey easier. The crown flares, as if registering her thoughts, but dims as quickly as it came.

"No," she says, and sets her sights on the valley. This is Skyhold—her home, a place that demands respect for all it stood for, for all it provided. This is her pilgrimage, she thinks with a weary grin, and perhaps the last time she will see the monolith loom out of the Frostbacks like a stone harbinger of hope. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas Ha’lam - Pride's End (or beginning)


	3. Tarasyl’ an Te’las

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'old' gang are back!

The staff clangs against the wall of the barbican watchtower. Rosa's hand rests beside it. 

"Fuck the pilgrimage," she rasps. "I should have gotten a horse, who am I kidding?" 

Sweat drips down her forehead onto ground. She watches the dirt darken, deaf to all but the rush of blood in her ears, the thundering of her heart. Her dragon-slaying days seem like a distant memory—an impossible one. Peace makes for weak limbs and soft skin, and there had been peace for a long time. Rosa is not the woman she was when she first hiked here from Haven.

She regards what remains of her trek with contempt, studying the well-trodden path that leads towards a wooden drawbridge. A warm welcome and a cold bath are within her grasp if she can find the strength to take it. 

With a grunt, she reclaims her staff. 

* * *

The sight of the courtyard startles her.

Thousands of voices rang out here. Their dreams and fears bled into the walls and breathed life to silent stones. There was joy once, despite it all; joy and boundless hope. If she tries, she can picture their faces, the nameless mass of people weaving, pacing, living. The sick, the soldiers—she remembers them all. The fortress' emptiness unnerves her, and though Skyhold has been unused for over a decade, disappointment twists in her gut at what it has become, at the memory of what was. 

"She's here!" 

Cassandra erupts behind the doors of the main hall and strides to the landing of the ramp. Lace covers the rear. 

Rosa's anxiety ebbs. She hoists her staff in greeting. 

As she approaches, the Seeker leans forward, hands-on thighs to keep her from falling. "Sweet Maker, did you walk here?" 

Rosa gawps. "Didn't you?" 

"What?" She taps her ear. _Deaf._

Rosa repeats the question at the top of the ramp. 

Cassandra's chuckle is almost a purr, guttural and low. "I'm an old woman now—and if you hadn't noticed, so are you." She guides her inside with a hand on the small of her back. With a frown, Rosa acknowledges that the main doors are new—not the ones from when she was here. 

The Grand Hall is warm, well lit—and to her infinite surprise—clean. Bare, save for a circle of chairs, an old table, and a dusty carpet, the fortress endured few changes during its most recent repair. Towards the undercroft, an enchanted mop and bucket disappears into the hold. Dorian watches it go, twirling his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. Hearing footsteps, he turns. 

"The Herald of Andraste returns to her seat of power." The Magister clasps her by the shoulders and draws her in for a polite kiss. As he studies her, his nose wrinkles. "You look awful. Why do you look like you've just scaled a mountain?"

"Because she _did_ scale a mountain, Dorian," Cassandra says, claiming one of the chairs with a groan of relief. She runs a hand through her cropped hair, exposing dark roots peppered with grey. 

“Fasta vass—are you mad?”

"I _thought_ it would be a nice gesture," Rosa scowls, walking to a nearby weapons rack to deposit her staff. 

Dorian follows her, arranging his burgundy cloak with heavily ringed fingers that gleam in the low light. "For whom? Skyhold? If this place had a voice, it would be laughing, too. Honestly, what's the point of having any magical aptitude if you can't abuse it every once in a while." He stops and looks towards the entrance, brow knitting with concentration. "Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear much of anything anymore," Cassandra says with a wry grin. 

Rosa nods and marches towards the door. "I do."

The sound is indistinct at first, muffled by snow, mountains, trees, and monolithic walls. The clop of horses' hooves becomes apparent as the visitors storm over the neck's cobblestones, and finally, the drawbridge. A large carriage bobbles into the courtyard, pulled by two ebony geldings glistening with sweat. 

"Who?" 

Cassandra shoulders past with a grunt. "Ack, isn't it obvious?"

The door jerks open. Varric stumbles out of the carriage, floundering uneasily on the rutted ground. "Andraste's tit, I can't feel my ass."

"Language." Bianca fixes him with a glare, one hand cradling the curve of her swollen belly. Their boy, a young lad with ginger hair and cautious eyes, hides behind his mother's skirt. 

When he spots them, Varric smiles. "Your Inquisitorial-ness. I'd bow, but my back might give out." 

Rosa descends to meet him. They embrace. 

"You remember my wife, of course. This little heathen is Bartrand." 

"And I see another one is on the way," Rosa adds.

Bianca scoffs, pushing back wisps of damp hair from her forehead. Her face is flushed, her bust straining against the bodice of her dress. "Not too soon, I hope. I already have my hands full with this one." 

The carriage shudders as two more figures stoop through the small door. Rosa recognizes Maryden Halewell by her lute. The sight of the grown man behind her takes her breath away. "Cole?"

"Hello." Cole dips his head, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. His blue eyes are barely visible behind his mop of hair and wide-brimmed hat. 

"We picked them up in Jader," Varric says, dusting his hands on his trousers. "Lucky, too. Most of the stables had rented out all the horses for—" 

Bianca elbows his side. Varric swallows his words with an audible gulp. "For today... since it's busy and all."

"We were going to ride with Cullen and Lady Josephine, but Varric and Bianca were kind enough to invite us," Maryden adds. 

Rosa does not mask her surprise. "They're coming, too?"

"Yep, with a carriage full of booze. Little space for much else, let alone two extra people." He gives Rosa a once-over. "Speaking of which, how did you get here, Inquisitor? You look like shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fasta vass - Tevene curse


	4. Gilded Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References to Callback, Tevinter Nights damage during the battle. I always imagined that Skyhold would be repaired in the time between then and now.

The tavern hums with laughter, song, and chatter. There is no awkwardness here, no nervous pauses or long silences punctuated by small talk. Despite the years and circumstances that divide them, it's like they never left. Perhaps, in their own way, they never did. 

If they feel the loss of the original Herald's Rest, they do not show it. The chairs are different, the walls are charred, and the old bar has been completely refurbished, but the feel of the place is the same. In that moment, Rosa decides it's the people, not the place, that carry on the legacy of what was. 

Josephine refills her glass and nestles beside her on the stairwell. "How are you enjoying your birthday so far?" 

"It's everything I could have hoped for." Rosa swirls her wine. "Honestly, I didn't think so many people would come." Their shoulders bump. Body heat warms the air between them.

"It _is_ very far," she agrees. "But it was a nice thought hosting it here. Skyhold was—is—important to us. It always will be."

Josephine's mane bobs as she considers her words. Time has done little to diminish the Antivan's beauty. From her thick hair down to her narrow waist, Josephine hardly looks her years. 

Maryden tunes her lute and strums the opening chords to The Girl in Red Crossing. Cole watches intently at her feet, fingers drumming a hollow beat across his thigh. Their eyes meet. Cole smiles, lips moving soundlessly to the words Maryden sings. 

Cullen's chuckle cuts across the tavern. As he squeezes into a spare chair, ale spills over the sides of his mug, narrowly missing Bianca's head. The dwarf admonishes him with a glare before leaving to refill her water. Her grimace of pain does not go unnoticed.

"Is something the matter?" 

Bianca shrugs. "Varric's taking his sweet time putting Bartrand to bed." She winces and presses a hand to her stomach. "Baby is giving me some trouble. I have some herbs for that in my room, but I don't know if I can manage the walk right now."

"I can get Varric," Josephine offers.

"No, let me," Rosa says. "I could use the walk."

* * *

"I wish we stayed for the fireworks," Bartrand whines.

Varric quiets him with an empathetic shush. Rosa stops, careful to avoid the light streaming from the thin crack in the door. 

"I thought you said she'd done it. Why aren't we celebrating then?"

"It's complicated," Varric replies.

There's a pause and the telltale shuffle of a restless boy. "Did she really do it?"

"She did."

"With just the one arm?"

"Bartrand."

"How?"

"I don't know, I wasn't there!"

"But you do know."

More shuffles, more huffs. Varric sinks his heavy boots into the floor. The bed creaks.

"I want to know."

"Andraste preserve me—if I tell you, will you sleep and let your old man play some cards?" His sigh tells her a bargain has been made.

"Fine. There was a fight in the Deep Roads. A lot of people… got hurt. She saved us, and stopped the sky falling on our asses."

"Did she kill him?"

"...Yes."

"How?"

"A dagger."

"But, she's a mage?"

"If you know the story so well, Bartrand, why don't you tell it?"

"Please."

"You are just like your mother—stop pawing, I'm thinking." Varric clears his voice. "It was a magic dagger…"

* * *

Rosa slumps against her staff. She struggles to stand. 

Charter's squeal of pain echoes across the chamber. Her body hangs above a shaft of air and fire. Rosa watches as the elf's limbs contort and jerk, pulled by an imaginary force. Solas holds her there, hand poised as if to paint another line on his fresco. From his right, he deflects the blow of a berserker with a well-timed shield, gaze never shifting from the scout in his grasp. 

They are losing. All of them, these nameless warriors brave enough to fight an old god in a Maker-forsaken hole far from the surface. Rosa has cut down dozens of elves and demons just to get here, to stand broken and bleeding by their side as they fall. Seeing him now, she realizes how futile their years of planning and preparation have been. He is too strong. They never had a chance. 

A squeal of pain shakes the cavern. Charter is thrown across the terrain in a flurry of arms and legs and splintered armor. When she stops rolling, body crashing against a boulder, she does not get up. 

Rosa shifts her focus to Solas, the sight of his proud profile carving fresh wounds from old scars. His features are expressionless, his lips in a permanent frown as wave after wave break against his magic. He is singular in his actions, steadfast, but he takes no pride in his task. The notion is a small comfort, but it does little to lessen the weight of what she must do—what she _knows_ must be done. 

_I have to try_ , she thinks, as a tall Qunari arcs uselessly over his head. She lowers her staff to the ground. _Even if I fail I—_

Solas turns his back to her. The idol flares in his hand. 

_Now._

Rosa runs towards him, ignoring the sharp pain in her side, the blood that gushes from the wound beneath her cuirass. She pulls the dagger from its sheath. 

He hears it. Solas swivels to face her, eyes red, hand at the ready. She feels the magic, sees the particles around him shudder into sequence. The shield is impenetrable, but she jumps anyway, arms straight, weapon ready. A cry of fury rips from her throat. 

He sees her. Red eyes flicker into blue. His features soften. She is close now, close enough to see the curve of his nose; the faded scar on his brow; the pink lips that part in a forgiving smile.

The shield falls.

The dagger lands.

The idol rolls. 

Solas' arms are heavy around her waist. 

* * *

Floorboards groan underfoot. Varric opens the door.

"Rosa?" He raises the candle holder to her face to chase away the gloom. "What are you doing hiding in the dark?"

"Bianca wanted some medicine for her nausea. I got distracted by the story." She realizes she hadn't heard the end of it. "I'm sorry."

His gaze falters. "No, I'm sorry, the boy—"

"Please, it's only natural. I rather liked your rendition. The magic blade… it was a nice touch." 

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I know it goes without saying, but if you need anything, I'm here. We all are. This is your birthday, sod all the rest of this Pride's End crap." Varric holds her arm and squeezes it comfortingly. As the moment ends, he clears his throat with a cough. "I better get that stuff for Bianca before she hurls all over the tavern and I get in shit for it." 


	5. Hope

"I thought I might find you here."

Dorian leans against the terrace door, arms folded over his chest. His voice startles her. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave you all for so long. I hope no one's worried." 

"They were worried; now they are drunk and losing at cards." He sighs and combs his hair. 

"Don't you wish to join them?"

"And lose the rest of my fortune to the Montilyet estate? I think I'll pass. My only regret is that I'll miss Lady Josephine strip Cullen of his dignity... and underwear, too."

"He's married, Dorian!" 

"And sapphires are blue, my dear. What does that have to do with a little bit of eye candy?" 

He joins her. Together, they map the hazy outline of the Frostbacks against an inky sky, its sharp edges and towering peaks lost in the darkness. 

"I'm not going to bother asking if you're alright, because that's a pointless question. You're not. And I'm sure today of all days is a poignant reminder that perhaps you'll never be." 

"Dorian I—" 

He fixes her in a firm stare. For the first time, she sees how much he resembles his father. "Everyone in that room owes you a great debt. They have families, holds, and titles because of what you sacrificed. Unfortunately for you, that also means none of them will ever have the balls to talk to you about what happened." 

"I don't need to talk about it," she says quietly, glancing down at her hand, at the loose fabric of her jacket where her left arm should be. 

"Bollocks," he says. "Everyone needs to. Even Inquisitors. Even Magisters." 

Dorian reaches under his collar and fishes for the black string around his neck. Two sending stones appear over the hem of his tunic. When Dorian left for Tevinter, he bequeathed one to her. _The other—_

He fondles one tentatively, tracing the lines of stone with practiced ease. It is broken and chipped in one corner. Its natural, iridescent light is all but gone. "As it stands, I also lost someone that day. Unlike the rest of our companions, I feel I am better equipped than most to understand how you feel."

Rosa folds into her shoulders, head slumping between them. "You must hate him for what he took from you." 

"I did. I _do_ , but I don't resent Solas for what he tried to accomplish. Or Iron Bull for sticking his nose in it all." 

Hearing his name sends shivers down her spine. It's exhilarating, like saying a naughty word out of earshot from strict parents. It has been a long time since Rosa has heard his name given freely, without malice, without reverence—given by someone who knew him as she knew him; before he became a legend, before children fed his likeness to a pyre. 

"For all it's worth, I've tried to remember who he was: an apostate with bad fashion sense, but a friend nonetheless." 

They share a giggle and watch the stars. As they settle into silence, Dorian starts to chuckle.   
  
"What?" 

"Do you remember the time Solas lit his coattails on fire?"

* * *

Morning breaks on the horizon, lancing through thick sheets of fog. Rosa watches the sunrise from the battlements, hand clasped tightly around a mug. She sips her drink and grimaces as the water hits her stomach. The memory of Dorian's smug grin flashes in her mind. 

"Just one more drink," she mimics in her best Tevine drawl. She braces against another wave of nausea. 

The door to the tavern's upper floor shudders open. Cole peers round the corner. When he spots her, he stammers in apology. "I didn't mean to interrupt." 

"Cole, don't be silly." She beckons him closer. "I could use the company. Maker knows after last night there won't be anyone around for hours." 

He hesitates but comes around, slinking to her side with silent steps that barely register on the ground. Rosa notices he isn't wearing any shoes. 

"How's Mary?" 

Cole frowns. "She sang until the vomit came out," he says. "I managed to save the lute, but not Cassandra's shoes."

His voice is low and reassuring, without the lyricism and lilt of his old, perplexing tones. He is normal, Rosa thinks—as normal as a spirit could be. In passing, she wonders how that has changed him, how living as a human has molded Compassion's purpose, if at all. Rosa holds his gaze and waits, but Cole says nothing. After years of hearing her most private thoughts parroted back at her, his silence is surprising. 

"Do you still help people, Cole?" she asks, focus shifting to her cup. "With Mary—do you try and heal their hurt?" 

He shrugs. "It's different now. 

"How so?"

He tugs his ear then touches the corner of his eye. "I don't hear as much. Sometimes, I look inside, to help, to heal. People build tall walls to keep out the pain, but it keeps it there, too. I can't find a way in. Not like before."

Rosa frowns and wrestles with the urge to hold him. "I'm sorry. I know how important that was for you."

A kestrel keens overhead and weaves through the steaming treetops. Cole watches it soar past with a smile that is young and hopeful, that brightens the color of his eyes. "It's okay. Mary has taught me that I don't have to know to help. She heals with songs and words. I've learned to hear and see in other ways, too." 

He watches her under his mop of hair and tenses. The air grows colder. "Something has happened," he says. His fingers pull and fiddle with the hem of his crumpled shirt. He reminds her of the boy she once knew; uncertain, cautious, and afraid. 

The mug trembles in her hand. "What is it?"

Cole shakes his head. "I don't know if I can say."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help. This could help, but couldn't. It could make it worse." In a quiet voice, he adds, "and Mary told me not to."

"Cole." Rosa places her cup on the wall. When Cole turns away, she stops him from leaving. "The worst has happened. Nothing can hurt me, not anymore."

"It can." He is shaking like a winter leaf caught on a branch. She can taste his dread, his anguish. 

"What can?"

"Hope."


	6. Jader

The carriage is unbearably hot. They sit shoulder to shoulder, knees pressed, arms folded, throats burning for fresh air. Varric's grip tightens around his son's waist. Bianca holds her belly and presses a damp forehead against her arm. Sweat pools in the hollow between her breasts. She doesn't seem to notice Cole staring.

"I should have walked." Rosa's voice is quiet. She inhales sharply as the coach lurches to one side. Mary clutches her lute and gives a wan smile.

"Enough of that," Varric grumbles. Bertrand kneads his father's belly with plump, small hands, seemingly oblivious to the danger. "We can't be far from the port now."

"We better not be, I don't know how much of this I can take," Bianca says, peeling back the window's drapes. Her features soften. "It's leveling out, thank the Stone."

"Found your religious bone on the road, wife?"

"I'll thank Andraste and all her disciples if it gets me off this sodding death trap."

"Language," Varric says with a smirk. Bertrand giggles at his father's tone and thumbs his teeth. "You heading back to Nevarra, Comtesse?"

"In a few days." Rosa hates boats. The idea of getting on one so soon after arriving fills her with dread. "I thought I might stay in Jader for a day or so."

Deep lines collect around Varric's down-turned lips. "You sure?"

She understands his concern. It's only been two days since Pride's End. No doubt the charred remnants of bonfires will remain; banners and signs of celebration still hung from high windows and tall balconies.

"I'll be fine," she says, a well-turned phrase Rosa finds herself using more the older she gets.

Varric doesn't press the issue.

It's another hour before the rumble of the dirt path morphs into the crunch of asphalt. Rosa looks behind the curtain, careful not to wake the bard snoring at her side.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, filtering through the gaps of tall apartments. Jader is gilded and golden, rosy-hued with fine filigree rooftops; its elegance matched only by the twisting spires of Val Royeaux. A few locals traipse down the thoroughfare, watching the carriage as it passes, eyes hidden behind white masks. 

A gull croons overhead; the noise stirs Varric from his daydream. "Almost at the docks." Unspoken words sit on his tongue, gated behind clenched teeth. "We'll be getting on the next boat out of here," he says as the carriage slows. Bertrand wriggles but does not wake.

Rosa smiles. "Then have a safe journey back to Kirkwall, Varric. Give Hawke my best when you see him."

He nods and pushes the door open. Mary stretches awake and yawns into Cole's shoulder.

The clamor of the busy docks pierces the small carriage. Despite the noise, Rosa is thankful for the fresh air and fills her lungs with the sea breeze. 

It's a few minutes before they are unloaded and ready to say their goodbyes. The friends take turns whispering sweet things into each other's hair as they embrace.

Bianca's lips are wet against her cheek. "Don't be a stranger," the dwarf tells her. "When you go back to Nevarra, stop by Kirkwall for a few days, okay?"

Rosa promises to keep in touch and helps them with their luggage, and fills their remaining moments with small talk and well wishes and encouragements for a swift reunion. After all these years, they've all grown accustomed to the routine.

* * *

"She's hurting." Cole's voice is shrill, almost frantic. It carries over the din of the docks.

Rosa finds the couple under the sign of an old cobbler's workshop.

"Please, Cole. You can't."

They break apart as Rosa approaches, unwilling or unable to hide their concerned expressions. Mary cradles the neck of her lute to her chest and manages a tired smile. "I overheard you're staying in Jader for a few days," she says, voice quivering like a panicked lark in flight. "Whereabouts?"

"I haven't planned that far."

Cole's eyes flit from her face to the floor. He is pale, paler than usual. Mary has not let go of his arm.

"Why don't you stay with us? I'm performing in a tavern near central. It's not grand, but it's good boarding, and I know the owner. I'm sure he'll have a room spare if you're keen?"

The bard's tone makes her anxious. Rosa knows when she's unwelcome—what she can't understand is why.

Mary senses her unease and tries to console her. The bard flattens her hand along the elf's shoulder. "You'll be hard-pressed to find good lodging during Pride's End, Inquisitor. I insist. Come with us."


	7. The Wolf and Bear

The old elf drags the back of his hand over his lips. "What was I saying?"

"Alienages." Rosa's voice is hoarse from yelling. She takes a gulp of ale and waits for her companion to collect his thoughts.

"Ah, yes. Terrible things they were. Terrible. The one in Denerim was particularly bad. All sorts of trouble there."

A drunk chevalier with a black beard and bowed legs stumbles through the gap between them and splatters beer into the elf's grey hair. He doesn't seem to notice, even as it drips down the back of his linen shirt.  
"We have it good now. Compared to what was. Real good." He hiccups and sways on the high stool.

Mary strums the chords to another song—a vibrant Orlesian jive that sends red-faced men jumping to their feet. They are the only two to remain seated.

"What were they like where you're from?"

Rosa shrugs. "Kirkwall was pretty bad.

Lies come quickly to her now. It's simple enough when no one remembers your face. For each new town, there's a new identity, a new story. Rosa has passed a decade masquerading as other elves, weaving tales of troubles that are seldom her own. In a world of peace, there's little room for an old war hero with deep scars.

He nudges her shin with his boot and points at her left arm. "D'you lose that there?"

"Yes. Guard caught me stealing bread in Lowtown. Cost me dearly."

He nods solemnly as if he's heard this story before. "Fuckin' shems," he mutters. "At least none of our kind has to suffer like we've suffered, ay?"

Rosa nods and glances over her shoulder. Mary is still alone, she observes. The bard's gaze shifts from face to face in search of Cole. He hasn't come down yet. Judging by Mary's tight jaw and stiff performance, this is unlike him; she's worried, too.

The drunk beside her cackles to himself. "We have _him_ to thank for that."

"Him?"

"You know." He tries to tap the side of his nose but misses. "The big bad wolf."

Rosa clears her throat and pretends not to hear. 

The man isn't dissuaded from his monologue and rambles on. "Naught wrong with what he wanted. Creators know we have had the shit end of the stick for too long."

"A lot of people lost their lives because of this thinking. Decent people." She thinks of Iron Bull before she can help herself; of Dorian's sad smile.

"For the greater good, ‘n that." He tips the empty glass on its head and bemoans the lack of alcohol to an uninterested barkeep. "At least now theys treat us like peoples. They scared because of what could'a ‘appened—what may ‘appen again if we ain't given our dues."

Behind them, the tavern erupts in shouts for an encore. Rosa takes it as her cue to leave. As she drops from her stool, the man grasps her arm firmly.

He squints up at her, his beady eyes trying to find a marker on her face to focus on. "You look familiar, you know? It's been eating away at me all night. You sure you're from Kirkwall?"

"Born and raised," she says. When he doesn't release her, she scowls. "I hear I look like the Inquisitor. With my missing arm and all."

A throaty laugh rips from his throat. His hand falls to his side. "Naw, I've met the 'Quisitor. You're too short, but good try."

Rosa chuckles and shoulders her way through the thicket of bodies. As she climbs the rickety stairs to her quarters, the tavern bursts into a disjointed rendition of _Empress of Fire._

* * *

Cole is waiting for her in the dark. Light from the street illuminates his profile. Rosa sparks the candle on her bedside table with a simple spell. He doesn't acknowledge her, even when she sits beside him.

"Cole?"

"Hmm?"

"You know this is my bedroom."

"I know."

His blue cotton pajamas are soft and one size too small. The leg of his trousers sits high on his ankles, exposing mismatched socks littered with holes. Rosa touches the cold hands folded on his lap.

"I thought, maybe, he would come. Like he used to. He liked your room—though, is it really your room if it was his first? I'm not sure."

Rosa smiles. "I know you get this a lot, but you're not making much sense, Cole."

His eyes widen in disbelief. "Can you not feel it?"

"Cole, I'm—"

"The world is different, but the same. I feel it clearly here. Skyhold has so many memories, so many songs, I couldn't sure, but here—"

"Stop, please." Rosa's voice is clipped. Harsher than intended. 

Cole stops and stares sheepishly at the floor. 

"Mary should be done soon. Perhaps you should wait for her. She is worried about you."

Cole opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly, and substitutes words with a nod. The bed bobs as he gets up. "I'm sorry. I hoped…" He glances at the small window clouded with fog and shakes his head. "Sleep well, Inquisitor. Perhaps… maybe…"

Cole closes the door behind him, muttering to himself as he leaves. Rosa stares at his faded imprint on the covers and flicks her hand.

The light goes out.


	8. Another World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And right then, she felt the whole world change. 

Rosa sleeps late and wakes early. She has convinced herself that she always slept poorly. The lie is sweeter and more manageable than admitting she dreams, and when she dreams, there are nightmares that leave her breathless and screaming, drenched in sweat.

Sometimes, she dreams of Corypheus, of his long gnarled fingers reaching through space and time to curl around her neck, squeezing, cutting, hurting. Every so often, it's her family—her clan. Her mother, burnt and sorrowful, asks why she left—why she abandoned her home. It is always the same question—the same memory. 

Last night, she dreamt of Charter, her crooked grin and wide eyes; her bruised and broken body twisted beneath shattered armor. There is so much blood—Charter's blood—in her eyes and hair, staining her hands. Rosa tells her that she's sorry that she took so long; that she wanted to save them—to save them all. Charter only smiles.

"Twelve coppers," the sandy-haired dwarf repeats. He flexes his flour-dusted fingers impatiently.

Rosa apologizes and fishes for the coins in her pocket. The baker hands over a box of cupcakes, making no effort to disguise his interest in her missing arm. She leaves before he can ask any questions. 

Jader is bright and brilliant and hopeful, a city in constant motion. Like Val Royeaux, the sea-side port has little time from rest and rumbles into action at dawn's first light. 

Rosa slinks through the marketplace and holds her package against her, careful to avoid the steady stream of mules, carts, and people that walk by. Cooks barter with grocers, fingering produce with firm touches to ascertain their freshness. In the design district, mothers drag unruly children from shop to shop as they fish for new threads for their next dress. There are Dalish here too, a sight that would have been incomprehensible only ten years ago. As she passes, they stare, homing in on her unmarked face. To them, she is no more than a city elf, some creature with no clan or creed. She can sense their pity, their disdain. It quickens her steps. 

Rosa realizes she is being followed while inside an apothecary. The walls of the shop are lined with mirrors. In them, she sees a tall, hooded figure under a pink awning. Though she cannot see his face, she feels his eyes on her. When she leaves, he follows, stopping when she stops, browsing when she does. By the end of the thoroughfare, Rosa has ruled out the possibility of an assassin. He is not Carta or Ben-Hassrath, nor does he carry himself with the elegance and stealth of an Antivan Crow. In fact, it could be said he is hardly stealthy at all. Whoever this is, he is clearly new to the art of tailing. Still, Rosa decides to err on the side of caution. Without her staff, she is vulnerable, and neither Cole nor Mary knows her whereabouts. 

She leads him to a quiet part of town, a section marked by tall, crooked apartments and thin alleyways. An old Alienage distinguished by an ancient Vhenadahl looms in the distance. Save for a few drunks, the area is desolate. When Rosa takes a sharp turn into a corridor, she loses him. Hiding behind a stack of empty fruit crates, he jogs past blindly. When his footsteps stop, she peers round the corner. 

His back is turned. Broad shoulders rise and fall as he catches his breath. Uttering a quiet curse, he flicks back the hood of his cloak in annoyance, exposing long braided hair and pointed ears. 

Static builds in the palm of her hand, crackling like bottled thunder. When he turns at the sound, she slinks out from behind her cover and tuts in a warning. 

"Tel' josh," she says. Lightning jumps from her fingers onto the path. "Why are you following me?"

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hands. Rosa hears him swallow.

"I—I don't know." His voice is low, melodic, and familiar.

Her heart stirs, thrumming in her chest with uncertainty. The magic sizzles, faltering into a dim glow. Rosa has to concentrate on maintaining it. "Are you Dalish?" 

He shakes his head. 

From the main road, the squeal of laughing children echoes down the corridor. Rosa loses focus for a second. It's enough; the spell fades with a pop. His ears twitch in recognition. He turns around. 

_And right then, she felt the whole world change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tel’ josh - Don't move


	9. Star Crossed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OHMEEGAWD, it's done; the wonderful [Kiwipon](https://twitter.com/kiwi_pon?lang=en) has done it--and I couldn't be happier with the result. I hope you guys are as in love with the image as I am. (T_T)

The box slips out from under her arm. Cupcakes roll across the floor, sending dust and dirt into the air. Rosa doesn't notice—doesn't care—and gapes with parted lips that tremble like pages in the wind. When her legs buckle, he jerks towards her.

Lightning surges in her hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay away," she whispers. "Don't come any closer."

His eyes pucker in pain and confusion. "I mean you no harm."

 _It's his voice_ , she thinks. _It's his, it's his, it's his_ —but not. _No_. He is boyish, less confident, more afraid—with none of the grace and lyricism of his likeness.

"It's not possible," she tells him. _And yet it is_ , her heart sings, beating hard with hope and longing, with an intensity that threatens to undo years of cold restraint.

"Please." The word snags on his tongue, straining past pursed lips. His hand extends in welcome. Fingers curl like wilted petals above an open palm, beseeching, pleading—imploring her to touch.

 _No_. Rosa shakes her head and retreats, backing into a wall marred by tiny bumps that dig into her shoulders. "This is a trick, a ruse. You can't be him. You can't."

"I'm not," he concedes. "Not fully. Not yet." He takes a step towards her. Then another. Shadows snap across his face, snaking over the deep hollows of his cheeks.

Rosa realizes with increasing alarm that he is young—as young as she was then; unlined and unmarked and beautiful in a way she no longer can be.

"Rosa." He says her name, teasing each syllable. He repeats it again and again. It's a mantra that soothes them both, that keeps her rooted to the spot, even as he grasps her waist, drawing long fingers across the jut of her hip bones, the top of her trousers. He works his way to her face, mapping her lips, jaw, nose, eyes, with feather-light touches. "It's you."

She pushes against his chest and feels his heart. It flutters, soft, and quick, and fleeting, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

He smiles when she cries. "My rare and marvelous spirit. I've found you at last."


	10. Frilly

Cole waits outside the tavern, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. When he spots her, he runs towards them, with a long, lanky gait that makes him look more Halla than human. His embrace knocks the air from her lungs. "I felt magic—your magic. And pain, so much pain." He pulls away and studies her, eyes enlivened with tears. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

Rosa hands him an empty box. "I bought you cupcakes, but—" She falters as Solas draws up beside her.

Cole isn't surprised. "Wisdom?"

"Compassion?" Solas returns. His tone is unsure.

"Yes, once. I'm more Cole than Compassion now." When Solas motions to draw back his hood, Cole shakes his head. "Inside," he suggests.

They come together in her room, all three of them. Rosa stands by the window and watches the street if only to give her something to do.

Cole makes an appreciative sound in his throat and tugs at Solas' hair. He finds the shaved sides of his head amusing. "You are not an egg anymore," he tells him with a chuckle. Solas says nothing.

"Cole… did you know about this?" Rosa glances over her shoulder long enough to see him nod. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did," he protests, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "I left bread crumbs for you to follow, secrets hidden in words, but you didn't want to find them."

"I didn't need riddles, Cole." She sighs. There is no venom in her words, but Cole recoils anyway. "Is it him?"

"Yes… and no."

She laughs. "That's what he said, too."

Cole turns his attention back to Solas. "Do you remember me?" he asks.

Solas frowns and shrugs.

"It's okay to not remember. It might take time." He touches his shoulder and offers a comforting smile.

"How is this possible? I—" The words form knots in her throat. "I saw him die."

Outside, a gang of young boys tumbles across the street. A dark Mabari bounds after them, snapping at their heels.

Cole considers the question in silence. "We are not like you, not really. We are never really alive because being alive means you die, and we don't. Not like you, or Mary, or Varric. You go in the ground, back to the stone. We go home—our home. Sometimes, if we are remembered, we can reform. Not the same as before, but different."

"We?"

"Spirits." Cole answers. His head cocks as if surprised by the question.

Rosa faces them. "Solas was not a spirit," she says, pointing at the man on her bed. As she watches him, her disbelief wanes.

 _What is… was Solas?_ With a trembling heart, Rosa realizes she can't answer that. Not really. Not completely. What she knows is only hearsay, plucked from ancient murals and scripture. Fen'Harel revealed even less in life, their conversations a fickle back and forth of half-truths and polite deflections. 

Cole inhales through his nose, knuckles white around the covers in his hands. "It was so long ago. Before everything happened. Solas didn't want to leave the Fade, but she asked him. _She_ needed wisdom, and he needed her. The spirit faded and became real. It became Pride."

Disappointment takes root in her gut. "So… he's not real?"

"No, he is him. Like I am me. He is real, Rosa. He won't fade away."

There's a knock at the door. "Rosa, is Cole with you?" _It's Mary._

"I—I'm here," he stammers, jumping to his feet. He pushes Solas gently, urging him to get up. He points to a blind spot behind the door.

Cole slips out the room, stammering rum apologies as he goes. Mary's tone is sad and broken, but her relief is palpable. The floorboards creak as they head downstairs.

Rosa feels his absence strongly. The room is suddenly two sizes too small, warm, and constricting, a place with no exits and four walls.

  
Solas' touches her waist. He is so close, too close. Too—everything.

Rosa stumbles away. "Stop that. Please."

He grasps her arm. The left. The one he took. The one that glowed. The one that made her, _her_. The one that brought them together; that tore them apart.

"Why?" He asks. His innocence strikes her. He doesn't know—he doesn't know—and yet he longs for her touch, her heat, her approval. He reminds her of Cole, new and young, and incomplete. And yet his love is full, enduring—everything she wanted and could not have.

"It's not proper," she tells him, an empty statement that has little meaning between old lovers.

"Why?"

Rosa can't find the words to explain. Perhaps this is how he felt, she thinks. Back then, when she begged him to love her. Maybe this was what it is to love and not have; to want and not take.

"You're not you," she says.

"But you're you."

Rosa staggers to the bed and sits. Fortunately, he does not follow. She hides her face in her hand and tries a different tact.

"What do you remember, Solas?"

His features harden. The sight warms Rosa's heart—he is the same and different all at once; familiar and recognizable like an old shirt that no longer fits.

"It's hard to say. Some gaps span ages. And sleep—so much sleep and rest, and sudden disappointment." He bites his lip and glances at the door. Footsteps rumble up the stairwell. They hold their breath and wait.

Cole heaves open the door and shuts it quickly. He cradles a frilly cupcake in his hand."I have an idea," he says. The corner of his lips are caked with icing.


	11. In Memoriam

The tavern shudders. A chorus of grunts and laughter pulses through the walls. Mary's song is light and airy and cuts through the discord of voices.

"Help him," Cole repeats, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat on his head. "You need to help him remember."

"How?" She points to the cupcake in Solas' hand. "With confectionery?"

Cole groans. "Solas has been apart from himself for too long. He has lost the bits of himself he liked and hated along the way, but it's not gone. It's just left behind. All we have to do is find the pieces and put them back together."

"And where do you imagine these pieces are?"

"In the old places—the ones that mattered. And the Fade, and the people that remember for him, like you or me."

Solas' chuckle interrupts their train of thoughts. "This is quite good," he declares. He swipes a finger across the baby-blue icing and licks it. 

Rosa's cheeks flush at the sight.

"You used to like frilly cakes," Cole says as Solas takes another bite. "Do you remember that?"

Solas narrows his eyes. A thin line forms between his eyebrows. "I remember a man." He winces, as if in pain.

"Don't force it," Cole says and gestures for him to relax. "Memory doesn't like to be rushed."

"He has a black beard and a long face. And a secret." Solas opens his eyes and kneads the side of his head. "He wanted to know what I saw in the Fade."

Cole's bark of laughter is full of hope. "Blackwall!"

"Blackwall?" The word rumbles off the tip of his tongue. Solas considers it carefully.

"He was a friend. You had many before you left, before you—"

Solas winces again and squints. The remains of the cupcake fall to the floor.

Despite her reservations—the overwhelming sense of dread and disbelief—Rosa reaches out, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

Solas smiles. His eyes are warm, thankful. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "There is so much to remember, so many truths hidden behind locked doors."

"Don't worry, we'll help you."

"We?" Rosa straightens. "You can't, Cole."

Cole frowns. "Solas helped me," he says. "He was kind when others were not. I owe him my life."

"What about Mary?" The question stuns him for a moment.

"Mary and I came together because we both want to heal the hurt of those who need it. Solas needs me now. I will… talk to her about it."

"Thank you, Compassion," Solas murmurs, blinking with heavy-lidded eyes. A yawn escapes him.

His sudden fatigue reminds Rosa of a very pressing issue: the matter of sleeping arrangements. The bed is big enough for two—just about—but Rosa can't fathom sharing.

_No, absolutely not._

Cole reads her like a map. "There's more than enough space for both of you."

"Cole, I don't think that's wise."

He cocks his head. "Why not? Perhaps you'll enjoy it as much as before."

A dry heat crawls up her skin, brightening her pale neck in red splotches. "Cole—"

"It might even help him remember. You used to be so enthusiastic at bedtime: Yes, yes, yes, Creators, yes—you always found so much to agree on. Why don't you—"

" _Cole_!" Rosa's voice breaks in a high falsetto.

Solas collects himself and begs for silence. Although his voice is calm and collected, he avoids her gaze and addresses his feet to hide the blush that blossoms across his neck. "I can sleep on the floor. I know enough to see that my presence distresses you, Lethallan. I would not wish to intrude further."

They agree.

By the time Cole and Rosa decide on a plan of action, Solas is snoring softly by her bedside table, head slumped against the wall.


	12. Chains of Command

A door slams.

Rosa wakes with a start. Her neck is stiff, painfully so. It takes her a few moments to realize she is still in her traveling clothes; she must have fallen asleep on the bed without changing.

She can hear Cole pleading, his tired voice slipping down the corridor in a low whine. Mary says something sharp and unintelligible. Her footsteps thunder down the stairs like hail on stone.

It must be late, so late it's early. Rosa strains her eyes to see in the dark. The floorboards beside her bed groan. She hears Solas clear his throat.

"Solas?" she says. He is where she left him, folded on the floor.

"Hmm?"

Rosa says nothing. It feels imprudent to ask questions.

"Interrogate away," he tells her, reading her thoughts. "I will answer whatever you ask of me."

"What do you hope to remember first?"

He is silent for a long time. "Everything."

"Huh, is that all?"

"I want to remember where I started. There are such old fragments of myself. I see war and strife. And feel pain—immeasurable pain. Then nothing. A millennium of dreamless nights." He clears his throat again and fidgets. From the sound, she assumes he is touching his hair. "But I want to remember us more," he tells her. His determination makes her heart flutter.

"You seem to already know me."

"Your name was one of the only things I had. Your name and one purpose."

"Purpose?"

"To find you. To be with you. My one singular goal."

"Is that why you reformed?" she asks. Her throat is dry and ashy. It hurts to speak.

"I think so. Even spirits cannot be certain of their purpose, no more than a baby is of its birth. It comes together as a sensation and offers itself up for interpretation. But I am reasonably confident in how I feel."

Solas struggles to his feet. Rosa turns around to watch him. He stands awkwardly and stretches. Bones and ligaments and muscles pull and soften, rolling into place. His dark face looms over hers without definition. She knows his eyes are on her, watching. Waiting.

"I have memories of the breach. Of the hole in the veil. Your hand, the one I took, pulses with power both old and familiar. I remember your lips in a dream. I remember how you begged me to stay." His footsteps rasp against the floorboard. He is moving away from her—to the door—the handle creaks in his palm. "I remember your smile in the moonlight. Your skin in the dark. I remember…" He falters and wobbles.

"Don't—Solas. Don't force it."

"I remember you giving yourself to me—freely. So willingly. And yet, I cannot remember why you began to hate me." His voice is small and angry in parts.

"I don't hate you, Solas."

"But you do," he challenges.

Rosa can't find the right words to console him. "It is not hate."

"Fear?"

"Yes. In part."

The corridor shakes. Mary stops outside their door. Rosa can feel her presence on the other side of the wood, throbbing with the need to look inside. But it's dark and late, and she's tired. The bard keeps walking. The door to her room clicks as it's closed.

Solas motions to leave.

"Don't go."

"I think you would be more comfortable. I would be more comfortable."

"Stay, please." She taps the side of the bed. "Please."

He hesitates but joins her. They sit on opposite sides, staring into the gloom, hunched over their stiff bodies.

Rosa wants to tell him everything. It would be so easy to tell their story, to bend words to suit her narrative. She would tell him of her indomitable focus, of his exploration of the Fade. They would talk about Rebel Mages, of Templars, and Haven. Of Skyhold. The Veil. But Cole told her it's not memory if he doesn't remember; they are just words she knows that he doesn't.

His fingers paw her shoulder. "Rosa?"

"I'm sorry, I was thinking."

His hand falls away. Rosa hears Solas stifle a yawn.

"We should try and get some rest."

The bed is a double—just barely. Rosa slinks back under the covers and nestles as close to the edge as she dares. Solas eases into the space beside her. His shoulder is warm and firm and comforting; she thinks he smells the same.

It doesn't take long for her to sleep.


	13. There and Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's all pretend it doesn't take a week to get to Skyhold normally ^_^

Solas is not there when she wakes. He is not in the bathroom or in Cole's room. He is not behind the bar or hidden behind the hulking taxidermy of a great bear. He is not inside the tavern but outside it.

Solas and Cole stand next to the road, tending to two geldings.

Mary hovers under the awning of a nearby shop, watching them with palpable worry. She rolls an icon of Andraste in her hand. "Rest well?" she asks as Rosa approaches. Her eyes never leave Solas' face, watching with red eyes sore from poor sleep and heavy tears.

"I guess Cole has briefed you on the situation."

Mary tuts. The idol flashes in her hand. "By the Maker, how is this possible?" There is something in her tone that's accusational—thirsting for confirmation that this is all part of some elaborate scheme.

"We don't know. It's what we have to find out."

"When Cole told me he thought he 'felt' Solas, I told him he was imagining things," she finally says. Her voice quivers. Rosa thinks she might start crying. "It really is him, though."

"Yes… I think so."

"I tried to get Cole to stay, but he won't," she adds.

"I know."

"It's not your fault."

 _Lies_ , she blames her—that much is obvious. Rosa doesn't mind. She has been hated for worse. "What will you do?"

"What I've always done: Travel."

Rosa is surprised. "How will Cole find you?"

"He always does," she says with a shrug. Her lips twitch into a smile. "We're connected in some strange way. He always seems to know where I am."

Solas is laughing. The depth of it shocks her. It isn't the reserved chuckle of the grown man she once knew. It is unbound and unrestrained, deep in places, high in others. He is unashamedly candid over something as small as a horse licking his face. Rosa's heart quickens in her chest. It feels lighter, somehow.

"Perhaps that's how he found you, too," Mary says. She touches her arm affectionately before heading inside.

Cole's tone is sweet and hopeful. He doesn't notice Rosa approach. "You have to be patient, both of you. Love doesn't happen overnight."

Solas sees her first. He bristles and looks at Cole with wide eyes, hoping to stem the outpouring of advice with a glance.

"You've been gone a long time. You have so much to discuss. Ah, good morning, Rosa—we were just talking about you."

It's difficult for her to keep a straight face, particularly when Solas hides behind his mount's neck, the tips of his ears glowing red with embarrassment. "I see you've already fetched the horses." She eyes them appreciatively. "You did pay for them, right?"

"With my own coin," Cole says, puffing out his chest. "Horses are too big to steal—even if this one says he wouldn't have minded." He strokes the gelding's velvet nose and coos.

"Do you know where we're going?" Rosa turns to Solas.

He nods. "Tarasyl' an Te'las."

"The place where the sky was held back," Rosa translates. If Solas thinks anything of the term, he doesn't show it. When Rosa reaches for the reins of Cole's horse, he hoists it out of range.

"You two ride together," he says, failing to conceal his mischievous smirk.

"Fine, let me go collect my things." She scowls and looks at Solas. "I'll lead."

Solas unhands the horse and swallows. "Of course."

* * *

Cole looks over his shoulder at the barren path and grows solemn. A world weary sigh escapes him.

"You can always turn back," Rosa suggests. The horse whinnies in agreement. She urges it on with a small tap to overtake Cole on the path.

"Can't," he says with a heavy sigh. "But, I miss her already."

"She should have traveled with us," Solas offers.

"No, she wouldn't want to."

"Why not?"

Cole doesn't answer.

"Because you terrify her," Rosa supplements coolly. His hand tightens around her waist. She jumps, as she has done the last four times, as she will no doubt continue to do.

"That's not very nice to say," Cole admonishes.

"It's true."

"Was I unkind to her?" Solas asks. 

His warm breath tickles the hairs on her neck. She tries to ignore it but can’t. Rosa allows this awkwardness to fuel her anger instead. "You were not unkind to people, Solas. You hurt them in different ways."

"Like you?"

"No, that was..."

"Being unclear won't make this any easier for me."

"I'm sorry, I forgot I was supposed to make this _easy_ for you," she quips.   
  
"For someone I thought cared for me deeply, you have a funny way of showing it."

Cole's gleeful chuckle startles them both. "Arguing! This is a fine start."

"You make it sound like this is a good thing," Solas says.

"You don't fight about things that aren't important to you. Not really. You fight when you care."

Rosa scoffs. Cole's answer seems to settle Solas.

"Tell me, Compassion, why does Mary take issue with me?"

Cole tightens his grip around the reins and grows pensive. "You were scary for a time. To a lot of people, you meant the end of what was."

"I helped you," Solas reminds him. "I remember the breach—at least in part."

"You deceived us," Rosa answers, eliciting a cry from Cole.

"It's not true."

"It is. And the sooner he accepts that the sooner we move past it."

The trio are silent for a time, the clop of their horses' shoes on stony ground the only constant. From time to time, Cole asks whether Solas remembers anything. The answer is always the same, and while this fails to diminish the spirit’s enthusiasm, it had begun to grate on Rosa.

When Skyhold's tall spires appears over the valley's peripheries, Cole is ready to ask again. "We are almost here, Solas. Do you feel anything?"

His sigh tells Rosa everything she need to know. "I—"

"Let me guess: you don't remember." Rosa cajoles the horse forward with a firm kick—too firmly.

The horse protests and rears. It is almost enough to send both of them tumbling. Solas' hand darts around her waist. The other pushes against the horses' rump to support their weight. A litany of elvish curses bursts from his lips. "Rosa!"

"It's fine, Cole," she says sharply. 

The animal jitters from side to side, clearly disturbed by its rider's tone. It's only when Cole apologizes does it plod onward, trotting towards the drawbridge."You need more compassion," he tells her.

"That's your job, Cole."

"Then at least be patient."

 _Patient_ , she thinks with a clenched jaw. _To what end?_ As they crawl over the neck, Rosa stiffens with the realization that she is scared—terrified—for him. For what may never happen; for the what if of a life with a man with no past. The question hounds her, a cruel thorn of doubt that underpins her thoughts, bleeding her of hope. _What if he never remembers?_

Cole's shouting yanks her from her reverie.

_"Solas needs help!"_

Cole's horse's hooves pound against the drawbridge, drowning out the she-elf's confused complaints. 

Solas' hands are cold and clammy. His grip on her lessens. He's falling, slipping from the saddle like a bundle of hay pushed to one side. 

"I remember," she hears him say.


	14. The Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll come back to this later ^_^

_The orb glows, spitting shards of green light across the turned earth. The Anchor flares, pulsing with energy; it is almost too much to control._

_The spirits' whispers are deafening. There are so many voices, so many opinions, all reaching out at once. Many of them agree with the plan. Others do not. He begs them for quiet, but they do not relent—they do not stop._

_"Every alternative is worse," he repeats to himself, to any spirit that cares to listen. Sweat drips down the sharp curve of his nose and pools around his Cupid's bow. He is panting, heaving for each breath._   
_  
This is going to kill me, he thinks. This will…_

_The orb hisses and spins faster, levitating above his hand. The barrier pulses, once, twice, and expands outwards, seeping out of the orb. It continues to grow and rises higher and higher until he can't see it. The Fade is turning blue around the edges. It's—_

_The Frostbacks seem to grow, stretching towards the heavens, their snow-tipped caps melting into the cragged cliffs. The floor gives way, or perhaps his knees do?_

_He closes his eyes. They don't open again._

_But it's okay._

_It's dark here._

_It's finally quiet._

* * *

Solas opens his eyes. The canopy of the bed is dark and sequined and blurred. He tries to blink away the latter and proceeds to make it worse. He should rest, he knows he should, but confusion propels him forward, fueling weak arms and legs heavy like lead.

Solas' movement rouses Cole from his sleep. "Solas? Are you alright?" He searches the room, eyes flitting from the fire burning in the hearth to the terrace. The drapes are drawn, exposing a clear sky littered with stars. "We've been here a long time."

" _Here_?"

"Skyhold."

Solas glances around the apartment. Relief blossoms in his chest. "I remember this place," he says.

Cole makes an appreciative sound and rises to his feet. "This was Rosa's room."

Solas takes his time surveying the decor, the small wardrobe, the burgundy carpet, the gilded Orlesian chairs pushed to one side. The place is familiar, but lacking, he realizes. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he turns to Cole. "Where is she?"

"She was here. She watched you while you slept. Now, I'm not sure." He pours a glass of water and hands it to him. "What was the last thing you remember?"

"Her anger. The horse. I remember falling."

Cole nods. "You fell. She caught you with magic and used it to carry you here." His face tightens with worry. "I hope she's okay, too. Magic… hurts her now."

Solas looks instinctively to the walking stick beside the stairwell. It pulses with power. He knows a staff in disguise when he sees one. "But... she is a mage?"

Cole's expression morphs into a grimace. Solas can tell it pains him to think about it.

"You don't have to—"

"No, perhaps I should. Rosa will not speak of it, not to you, or anyone, but I won't tell you today." His laughter hiccups in his throat.

"And why's that?"

"Because the story makes me sad."


	15. A Well of Whispers

He finds her in the rotunda.

Rosa sits in the empty room, gazing up at broad washes of grey stone with patent interest. There is nothing of note here, nothing decorative, save for the dying candle at her side.

He stumbles. Pain shoots through his eyes, lips, and head.

_He sees her smiling, fingers red with paint. She leaves an imprint on the bare wall._

_"Stop scowling," she tells him. Her laughter is bright and bubbles like a child's. "You're going to cover it up anyway."_

"You shouldn't be here." Rosa is on her feet, stalking towards him with quick steps that patter like rainfall. She walks through the memory, tearing it into wisps of smoke and shadow.

He waves her away and leans against the door frame. "I'm fine," he lies, pinching the bridge of his nose. The ache fades as quickly as it came.

"You're everything but fine." Rosa cups his cheek and tilts his face towards her. She studies him. If her lips weren't so tightly pursed, it would almost be endearing. However, as it stands, it smacks of concern, like a mother checking in on her sick infant.

"I'm fine," he tells her again.

She doesn't look convinced but nods. "Are you… feeling better?

"In a manner of speaking."

Rosa gives a clipped laugh, turns on her heels, and wanders back towards the rotunda's center. "That's a no then."

Solas follows. "Thank you for what you did," he says, filling the silence with the soft echo of his gratitude.

She stops and watches him out of the corner of her eye. He can taste her reservation, the guilt. It has a tangible weight and shape—a color that's as easily discernible as the grey of her tunic. He knows she wants to apologize, even as the words fizzle on her lips, washed away by pride.

"Do you know what caused your collapse?"

"A memory."

"And?" she presses when he does not continue.

"Of holding back the sky."

"And?"

"And I saw the formation of the Veil, in part… before I woke up."

"Do you… remember why you did it?"

He smiles. "Because every alternative was worse. I still don't understand why that is."

The candle goes out. Its light lingers long enough for him to see her pout, to see her eyes search the ceiling of the room with an anxious glance. It's almost like she's listening for something—the scuttling of a mouse, or the drone of a bug, something only she can hear.

"I assume you know something about that," he says if only to draw her attention back to him.

"Only what you told me."

She turns and walks towards the entrance, stopping to collect the candle holder. Rosa doesn't want to discuss it, for whatever reason. Despite his impatience, he decides not to force the issue—at least in a way that does not warrant her ire.

"And did you believe me?"

“I believed every word, Solas—fool that I was."

* * *

The throne clunks as she passes.

Rosa hangs her head and prays to Andraste, and all the Creators, for patience for hers is wearing thin.

"Cole?"

When he doesn't answer, she clicks her tongue.

"You were much better at this as a boy," she murmurs.

"I only wanted to make sure you were okay," he finally says. The edge of his hat peeks behind the arm of the chair.

"I know."

"Is he still there?"

"Yes. Keep an eye on him, will you? I'm going to bed."

"Shall I send him to you when he's done?"

She sighs. "If you think it best." Rosa stops a heartbeat later, just as Cole makes his way down the Great Hall's platform."Cole?"

"Hmm?"

"After Skyhold, we're going to Ferelden."

He cocks his head. The question of _why_ sits unspoken behind clenched teeth.

"There's someone he needs to see."

* * *

_The voices purr with amusement. They are smiling, caressing Rosa with low whispers that fade into a deep hiss. Only one word reaches her, a soft, delicate note of contentment from being understood, from being obeyed._

_"Good."_


	16. Belief

Rosa's fingers roam across the cracks in the plaster, tracing thin lines and pockmarks as they journey. After a time, she flattens her palm against the grey wall and smiles a private smile, a smile of remembrance.

"Will you tell me what you've planned now?" Solas asks with a shudder.

Skyhold is cold and crisp at daybreak, with stones that seem to amplify his chill. He brushes the raised hairs on his arms and suppresses a deep shudder.

Rosa is well-rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She pays no mind to his obvious discomfort. "I wanted to ask you something first."

"Could this not be done in bed, or next to a hearth?" he gripes.

"Do you remember how you reformed?"

He arches a brow. "Do you remember much of your birth?"

She smirks. "I see your point. Am I right in assuming then that there was a period where you were 'not' Solas."

"I suppose?"

"If you have any recollection of your time in the Fade, as a spirit, I would like to hear it."

"There is not much to say." Solas lowers himself to the ground, tucking his knees into his chest to keep in the warmth. "You awake in the Fade. How long I 'gestated' in an amorphous form unknown to me."

"Were there other spirits there?"

"It's the Fade—where else would they be?"

"And they did not help you regain your memories?"

Solas chuckles. "I reformed, in part, because of them. If the feeling of what was has enough substance to permutate, it can—but that requires the memory of other spirits to do so. However, it is only a reflection. They do not know my hopes, my fears—the things in life that shaped me. Consequently, whatever imprints of my character they dispense are limited. Superficial."

"And your knowledge of the Fade? Is that not carried over from your past?"

"Wisdom regarding the Fade is passed on, taught by other spirits. It might seem convoluted to a mortal, but these insights are no more profound than a child learning how to walk, or how to speak. It is our reality, and, with time, one comes to understand it."

Rosa thumbs her lower lip and considers the information. She finally hums in acknowledgement and takes a seat beside him. "And the Breach?" she asks.

"The details are hazy at best, but fragments of it are here." He taps his head.

"Why?"

Solas considers the question. "The Breach tore open the sky, Lethallan. It is something all spirits would have experienced. Perhaps that is why some negligible recollection of it filtered into my consciousness. At least partially."

"And the rest of your memories? Do you think that might have had something to do with the Breach, perhaps formed from our past connection to it?"

Solas regards her. Rosa is closer than anticipated, staring up at him with eyes wide with anticipation and enlivened with childlike wonder that makes her look younger than her years.

"Possibly," he scratches the back of his head. "Nevertheless, I think there's a more relevant reason for it." His voice is hoarse. He swallows, but there is no respite from this sudden dryness.

"Oh?"

"It's… difficult to explain," he adds when words fail him.

"Try."

"Spirits are born from concepts, ideals reflected from our world. These tend to be principles: wisdom, compassion, justice, purpose. These notions form the crux of their being, the pillars from which their existence hinges on. I… believe I formed from something more than that. Something more tangible, something that allowed me to reflect more than abstract ideals."

"Meaning?"

"You."

He sees the moment he loses her; when wonder and mystery harden into logic and disbelief. She purses her lips and looks away, fixing her gaze on the floor. "This is all hearsay," she says, muffled words spoken into the collar of her shirt. "There are a thousand possible reasons for your selective memory."

"Perhaps. And yet, my clearest memories are of a time spent with you." He cocks his head, hoping to glimpse her expression beneath her veil of hair. "Do you not find it peculiar that I managed to find you? Is it so hard to accept that some power anchored me to you—something that defies normal convention?"

She shakes her head and wobbles to her feet. He grasps her arm, pulling her back down towards him.

Rosa struggles to break free. "Solas, let go—"

"It is that painful to believe in something good, vhenan?"

The slap catches him off guard. He hears the thunderous crack before the sting of it swelters across his cheek.

Rosa's eyes are narrowed and angry. She huffs and marches towards the barracks.

* * *

Cole nearly drops his mug as Solas storms up the steps of the Inquisitor's bedroom. He shuffles from the terrace to greet him.

"She is impossible—" Solas spits. He slumps on the edge of the bed and cradles his face in his hands.

Cole studies his red cheek and mouths an 'oh' in understanding. "Making women angry isn't wise, Solas. Perhaps you forgot about that. It's a crucial lesson."

"She is completely closed off—it's like trying to beat down a stone wall with my fist."

"Walls keep her safe. It's all she has had for a long time." Cole sniffs and rubs his wet nose with the back of his hand. He approaches Solas cautiously. "What did you say?"

Solas paraphrases the events. Cole nods all the while and listens with a grim expression.

"I think you're right," Cole says. He tucks himself into the bed beside him. "You love her and she loves you—she gave you a part of her to keep and you never let it go. It's why you're still you."

"Then tell her. She might listen to your reasoning."

"That's not how it works." His fringe sways with the slow shake of his head. "You can't tell her this. She won't believe it—just like we can't tell you everything that happened. It won't be real. It won't be true."

Solas sighs but doesn't press the issue. His rage seeps out of him, oozing from clenched jaws and fists, from tight muscles and pursed lips. He stares blankly at his hands and shrugs. "Perhaps I made a mistake," he murmurs. "Perhaps I misunderstood. I look into her face and all I see is fear and misery."

Cole strokes his shoulders. "I'm going to get you a cupcake," Cole says. "The cupcake will help."

As he slinks off the bed, Solas grabs his hand. "Am I wrong, Compassion? Was I mistaken?"

"No," Cole tells him. He touches his arm and offers him a warm smile. "She loved you. She loved you so much she had to forget, too."


	17. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew, little bit of sexy Solas. *Fans Self*

Muttered words deep and dim and garbled coax him from his comfortable darkness. As he listens, they become clearer. Sound becomes letters, mumbles become tone—and suddenly he is falling back, falling forward, plucked from a dreamless sleep and rocked awake to the din of conversation.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

A chair groans. Weight shifts. "It's not about want."

"Can you do it?"

"Of course I can."

"But—"

Solas squints against the light. The terrace comes into the focus, as do the mountains beyond and its overcast sky. It smells of rain, of budding clouds ready to burst.

"Cole."

He sniffs, uncertain, unconvinced, and worried. 

"If this helps him, it's worth a shot, wouldn't you agree?"

"Healing him and hurting you isn't right."

Rosa gets up. She moves slowly, carefully. Cole makes a noise of disapproval, like a cat warbling before a fight.

"I know my limits. It won't be like before, I promise."

"Promise?"

"Have a little faith."

"Let me come with you," Cole whispers.

"No." Her tone brooks no argument. "I won't be long. Stay with him. Make sure he's safe."

"Does this mean… you're not mad at him anymore?"

Her feet fall rhythmically as she descends down the staircase. Her words are quiet, distant—almost too small to hear. "I could never stay angry at Solas, you know that."

* * *

Thunder booms overhead, drowning out the steady thrum of rainfall. There are leaks in Skyhold, cracks in the stone that give way to urban waterfalls. The rhythmic trickling of water permeates throughout, echoing down the fortress' corridors, halls, and rooms.

Cole glances up at the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall. Lightning flashes. White strikes the alcoves, chasing shadows from dark spaces, if only for a moment.

"Maybe we should look for her?" Cole mumbles. The heavy blanket on his lap is coarse, thick, and smells of dust, but he clings to it all the same.

Solas looks towards the hall's open doors. Rain is falling fast, a downpour of countless fractured lines hurtling towards the ground. "She'll be back soon."

"How do you know?"

 _I just do_.

"Shall we play another game to pass the time?"

Cole pouts. "No, I don't like losing."

They hear her arrival before they see her bobble across the landing. The base of her staff clanks against the stone. Magic sizzles with a pop, the barrier above her head invisible save for droplets of water that slip silently down a transparent dome. And she is laughing: high peals of laughter that cut across the rain and thunder; that bounce off the walls of the empty hall with the echo of a thousand voices.

Solas’ cheeks tighten in a smile.

"It's freezing," she says through chattering teeth. The bag falls from her shoulder, the staff is discarded. Leather boots make an audible plop as they're kicked off. "Thank the Maker it's summer—"

_"—rain._

_The Dales are warm, damp, and sticky. Rosa stares up at the dark clouds._

_Solas hides beneath the barrier and watches as the rain flattens her hair and pours down her face, catching in the hollows of her armor._

_She extends her hand towards him and laughs. "Are you afraid of getting a little wet?"_

Rosa loosens the drawstring of her trousers. They slide down her hips, inching lower with every shrug. Solas comes to as she bends and tugs the tunic over her back, exposing white skin crisscrossed with old scars, ribs, and the hint of a breast hitched against the fold of fabric—

Cole wraps the blanket around her. Her clothes fall in a wet heap on the floor and bunches around her ankles.

"There's a fresh fire in your room," Cole tells her. "Did you get what you needed?"

"And then some. I found the herbs—and a pair of nugs." She gestures to the bag on the floor. "When I'm dry, I'll make us something a little more filling than crackers and cupcakes."

The door to the rotunda squeaks shut. Rosa looks round, but Solas is already gone.

Cole shrugs and pats the blanket on either side of her shoulders. "He's fine. Go get warm."

* * *

Her wet footsteps ebb into silence.

Solas sighs and rests his head against the wall, hands splayed on either side of his hips.

_Blanket. Chair. Cake._

He tries to picture each in turn. He closes his eyes and ignores the persistent thrumming of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears.

_But he can't._

_Wet. Skin. Tight._

He sees her wet, flushed, and bare; hair slick against the curves of her neck, her brow.

The memory of her laughter reaches his core, and claws lower and lower and lower. His trousers are tight, so tight it hurts.

Solas shifts.

There's friction, perfect and coarse and warm, but not enough— _not nearly enough_. His hand twitches expectantly at its side, flexing in agreement, complicit with desire. The possibility is tempting, too tempting, but he won't—he can't. Not over something so simple. Not over something so juvenile.

His head lolls between his shoulders. He breathes and tries again.

_Blanket. Chair. Cake._

  
_Blanket. Chair. Cake._

  
_Blanket. Chair. Cake._


	18. Where did you think we were?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to make the dialogue a little clearer by using italics to determine spirit/memory dialogue as opposed to theirs. Hope it helps and isn't too confusing (but the Fade is always confusing!)

The mug she hands him is hot and filled to the brim. He eyes it warily.

"You're not going to like it," Rosa warns. She finishes what remains of her drink and joins him on the floor. "You've been here a while."

It's true. The rotunda is dark, shapeless, its bare walls masked in a seamless web of black. Outside, the rain has all but stopped.

Solas takes a tentative gulp and grimaces. "That's… unpleasant."

"Mmm, you never liked tea."

"I'm glad my sense of taste has prevailed through the ages."

She chuckles. "It's just boiled elfroot."

"For?" he asks, mouth hovering over the lip of the mug.

"An idea I had." Rosa nods towards the drink, goading him to take another sip. He does so reluctantly. "Cole claims that telling you what happened won't be meaningful. And we can't stay in Skyhold long enough for you to remember every facet of your time here."

"And tea is the solution?"

“No. Elfroot is just a relaxant.”

"Ah, so you're drugging me. How _marvelous_."

Rosa gives a quick bark of laughter. "Let me finish, da'len. As we are short on time, I propose we use dreaming as a means of escalating the process: seeing my memories in the Fade might help bring back yours."

"That's not how propositions work," he says, though not unkindly. "Usually, one proposes the idea before moving forward with it."

"Well, do you have another suggestion?"

He gives a defeated shrug.

"Good. Besides, if you don't want to sleep, you don't have to."

They settle in silence and acclimatize to the dark. There is no need for words or empty conversations. Solas is content to exist with—to exchange body heat, feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest, enjoy the aroma of newly washed skin and the scent of rainfall in her hair.

The effects of the herb are innocuous at first, subtle and indistinct; the suggestion of sleep as opposed to the enforcement of it. It blossoms into a gentle numbness marked by heavy limbs and loose muscles. With a smirk, he decides the sensation isn't terrible.

"Might I ask you something?"

She hums in agreement.

"Why are you always here? There must be dozens of places in Skyhold and yet…"

"I could ask you the same thing," she says.

He can hear the smile in her voice, the secret knowledge she holds like cards to her chest.

"Something familiar draws me here," he confesses. Solas feels foolish, admitting such things. The rotunda is blank—ordinary: a cylinder of stone and wood and stairs, nothing more. Compared to the barracks, or the Great Hall, it lacks character, a story.

_And yet…_

"I feel the same way."

There it is again. Another coded phrase. He takes a sip of what remains of his drink and shudders at its texture. It has grown cold. "I'm sure we could have done this without the elfroot," he murmurs.

Rosa’s body is warm, a comforting heat that only enhances his sense of fatigue. He allows his eyes to shut, to give in to the suggestion.

"I just wanted to see if you remembered—" she yawns.

"Remembered what?"

"How much you dislike tea."

* * *

Solas winks and wakes in a sea of people. The upper courtyard is crowded. Noisy. The chime of a hundred voices rings out across the grounds.

The door to Herald's Rest swings open. A band of mercenaries falls from the tavern, spluttering and laughing as they attempt to navigate their drunkenness. Solas hears Marydon's voice, soft and bright, over the strum of her lute. He's lost in the low vibrato of her voice when he feels a gloved hand on his shoulder.

" _Solas, the Inquisitor is looking for you_ ," says a woman with chopped black hair and cautious eyes. The scar across her cheek is long and pronounced.

"Cassandra," he says with uncertainty. He feels himself stand a little taller in her presence.

It is a strange thing to know and not know simultaneously, Solas thinks. Seeing Cassandra reinforces what he had already considered: that his memories are intact, but dormant. Scattered. As he glances upon her stern features, Solas sees images and pictures—echoes of a shared past. He remembers her fingers around his neck; the poisonous threats of having him tried as an apostate; her calm leadership as they brave the Frostbacks after Haven. Feelings and associations follow: respect and admiration tainted by an undercurrent of mistrust.

" _What are you waiting for?_ " Cassandra slings the training sword over her shoulder.

"Directions."

" _I thought you knew everything._ " As she walks towards the training area, her reflection shifts and fades. The shade of Justice glimmers for a moment before retreating. It lingers long enough to let out a mischievous chuckle.

Solas descends the stairwell down to the central courtyard.

Spirits take on the forms of guards, the injured, the sick. There are voices he remembers, many of which he does not; whispers of past conversations, tangling, rearranging, and merging into an indistinguishable cloud of noise.

Cole, a younger Cole, holds his hat and attends to a young soldier. His peculiar lilt carries over the drone and dissolves into static. The spirit is gone before he can approach him.

He finds Rosa beside an iron-wrought gate, staring out into the neck of Skyhold. A reflection of himself walks towards her. He's surprised by his own appearance, by his bald head and tired expression. He is older than he imagined.

Rosa's words are hushed and sympathetic. She reaches for him, revealing two pale hands limp with uncertainty. " _You don't have to mourn alone_."

There's a gentle tap on his shoulder. Rosa—his Rosa—looks up at him, her eyes narrowed with concern. "Come with me."

She guides him back towards the fortress, up the stone steps at a languid pace. Skyhold shudders and breathes, its memories in constant motion. They are anachronistic and unorganized, flipping back and forward through time.

"I'm sorry," Rosa murmurs, gesturing towards the wave of spirits forming and reforming. "I was never as good as you at controlling my memories in the Fade."

"Did we dream together often?"

"Not as much as I hoped. But sometimes." She smiles at the reminder and tucks her hair behind her ear.

Inside the Great Hall there are mosaics and lit torches, and decadent decor and banners hung from every pillar. There are Orlesians and dwarfs, commoners and royals who are watching, waiting, talking, and filling Skyhold with the imitations of their memories.

Rosa makes a beeline for the rotunda. She hesitates by the door. Her faces scrunches in concentration. The ruckus suddenly abates; spirits lose their form and fade into shapeless colors. For the first time, the fortress is subdued—quiet. Once Rosa is satisfied, she leads them inside.

Solas' murmur of surprise is louder than he anticipates. He eyes the sprawling murals of the rotunda, tracing their bold colors, memorizing the shapes and images that span the entire wall. Some of the art is unfinished, no more than sketched outlines waiting to be filled.

A reflection of himself corrects the hackles of a wolf. The room smells faintly of lacquer, paint, and plaster.

" _A tribute to your great accomplishments, Inquisitor_ ," he says, cocking his head to watch Rosa as she approaches.

Another echo appears, another variation of Solas. It marches to the desk in the center of the room and leans over the small square object. " _He has lost his army, and he has lost Orlais. That eliminates military or political means to rebuild Tevinter. He will need to demonstrate that no one in this world can stand against his magic. It will not be subtle_."

It's like watching himself in a play he knows the words to. The sensations and gestures are intimately familiar but guided by another's hand. Solas feels like a stand-in to his own life, living his experiences through another's eyes, even if they are his own.

Rosa shakes her head. The spirits disperse.

"Does this help?" she asks. Her voice is strained.

"The frescoes—I know them."

Fragments come together, pieces of the Breach make sense. He remembers the Mages at Redcliffe, the Red Templars in the Emerald Graves, Celine in her silver frock and sapphire-encrusted mask. Some souvenirs of past conversations are suddenly readily available, unlocked as if a cipher to their translation has been found. It's a start, but these memories are still incomplete, unfinished, like the frescoes on the walls.

"But they are not enough?" When Solas does not answer, she nods. "I feared as much." Rosa winces and looks around. "And we are running out of time."

The rotunda fills with reflections. Some half-formed, others bright and distinct, each ringing out with its own story, its own conversation. And they are all of him.

" _I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered, and I should not have encouraged it._ "

" _A thousand dwarven corpses laid, victims of the darkspawn horde. Their last stand marked by one great ring of armor. In the middle, one small body, clutching tightly to a small stuffed toy._ "

" _Inquisitor, I was… do you have a moment?_ "

Solas watches as this particular shade guides a reflection of Rosa towards the door. The memory is pronounced and clear—as solid as the stone on the floor, the paint on the walls. He follows it instinctively, drawn to the image.

Rosa stops him.

"I want to see," he tells her. Her grip is unyielding.

The image disappears through the door, out of sight.

Solas turns, his anger piqued. He is ready to demand an explanation when he sees the regret on her face, feels her fingers around his wrist. Around her, the echoes of him are speaking out in one voice—each verse flowing into the next, with no rhyme nor reason.

"Why?" he whispers.

"I can't… I'm sorry."

"Rosa?"

"Wake up."


	19. Intermission

Solas is blinded by a light. He shields his eyes.

Cole covers the candle and utters an apology. "The soup is ready. You've been asleep for a while," he murmurs.

Solas is silent in his confusion. The rotunda is cold, lifeless, bland. It takes the elf some time to shake the image of what was, of what was lost. Reality tastes different, feels incomplete, and fills him with a chill that envelopes his bones. 

Cole kneels beside Rosa. Her eyes are still closed, head tilted over one shoulder. He pushes back her fringe and frowns at the droplets of sweat that collect there. 

"She's still sleeping," Solas comments, rolling to his feet. His legs feel weak, his mouth dry. The bitter aftertaste of elfroot still lingers on his tongue. 

"Rosa wants to see more," Cole whispers. "I hope it is a good dream."

_"I can't… I'm sorry."_

Solas frowns. "I'm not sure it was."

Cole irons out the wrinkles of his tunic and gestures to the door. "Come."

* * *

The stew is warm, comforting, and chases the dregs of cold from his fingers and toes. The bowl is empty before he can savor it or enjoy the rich blend of herbs. 

Cole takes it from him with a smile and pours a fresh portion from the pot.

"Rosa always gets hungry after dreaming," Cole says, tending to his own bowl with tentative sips. "Sometimes, I'd find her here before dawn, rummaging like a mouse for scraps. I used to help her find where the cooks hid the pastries."

"That doesn't sound like her," Solas remarks, picturing her stern face and permanent scowl.

"It's hard to be fun as an adult. People don't let you play, even if you want to. I think all grown-ups forget." He pauses and glances at the ceiling, at yellowed cobwebs sprinkled with dust. "I hope she wakes soon." 

The pantry is small and stuffy. It is a perfect contrast to the rotunda and its vast, seamless walls and high ceilings. Solas frowns as he considers the dream, the bright frescoes, the smell of old books. His heart aches with the _possibility…_ He can't help but wonder. "Cole… the murals in that room."

"Yes?"

"Did the Inquisitor get rid of them?"

Cole's laughter comes out in a snort. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but it is a funny thought. She loved them. They were your present. When you left, she would go in and stare, and trace, and sigh. She did it till the day we abandoned Skyhold, until Ferelden and Orlais said she had to."

"Then what happened?"

Cole clamps up, his lips tighten in a way that suggests he won't answer. After a moment, he relaxes as if reconciled with some personal turmoil. 

"A demon came. When Skyhold was free and empty. It hurt the people that cared for her. When regret became too much, it formed from paint and plaster. to hurt. It hungered for kinship. The people who loved Skyhold stopped it, but she was never the same after." 

Solas' thoughts return to the dream. The tavern outside the courtyard was different then—the doors to the Great Hall as well. And the rotunda…

"It came from the frescoes?"

Cole looks apprehensive and nurses the bowl close to his chest. "It lived there. A small spark that grew and festered and changed. It broke the walls, the library. It destroyed your gift. Rosa was so sad when she heard what happened. _So sad_. She asked The Divine to help rebuild. It's why the rotunda is grey and empty, with no secrets, no words, no history. It doesn't remember what it was. It keeps her safe." 

"And whose regret was it?" Solas asks although he knows. _He knows, he knows._

"If you can't answer, then perhaps Skyhold isn't enough. Dreaming isn't enough." He stares at his bowl. "That's a shame. I liked being here. I think Rosa does, too."

"It helped, it did, it's just—"

"Lacking?"

"Like knowing the plot in the middle of a book. I know some of the battles, the characters—but the outcome? The result? It's still unclear."

At least something important was revealed, Solas thinks, glancing secretively over at Cole as he cools his stew with a breath. Something his dreams did not disclose: _He left._

The door creaks open. Cole and Solas both jump, their legs jolting against the preparation table beneath them. 

Rosa points to the pot and fire, her eyes heavy with want. "Hungry."


	20. Kinder in the Long Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Some. CUTE.

_I have to tell her... this is cruel—selfish; she deserves more—deserves better._

The wood is hard under his fingertips—unyielding; its imperfections like tiny shards against his skin. Outside the rotunda, Varric's voice rumbles with the trappings of a joke. There's a pause followed by more laughter, and the sound of Bianca’s cocking stirrups grazing the stone walls. Solas wonders briefly who Varric might be talking to.

_Focus._

He straightens and turns to the murals, observing his latest collection of half-finished lines with disinterest. He breathes, filling his lungs with the scent of fresh lacquer. Ordinarily, the fragrance would calm his nerves. Instead, he feels breathless, weak, and conflicted—emotions he cannot fathom experiencing after something so _banal_ —so juvenile.

He pictures Haven before he can stop himself, her lips and the soft kiss she plants over his like a mark of ownership. He remembers the feel of her rough clothes, the way her back folds into his palm; small, supple, willing. Solas claims he is not usually shaken by dreams, and yet here he is, mulling over the details of this moment like an inexperienced boy hinged on the mawkishness of a spring's first love.

 _I need to end it_. It is a resolution he has set time and time before, that time and time again is broken. He steels his resolve, hardening himself to the echoes of her giggle, the shape of her smile, the fingers that tease the threads of her blouse when she knows he's looking—

_Fenedhis._

Solas doesn't hear Varric issue a farewell, nor does he hear the door to the rotunda open, or her silent footsteps. She appears, as she always has: in quiet surprise; in serendipitous glory.

"Solas?"

His chest tightens and constricts, willpower fizzles into submission with an uninspired pop. As their eyes meet, reservation dies on the tip of his tongue, logic on the strum of his heartbeat. He is unmade at a glance.

"Inquisitor, I was…" he falters, feels words—words!—shudder through him with disquiet. He chastises himself for his hollow voice, his wandering eyes that drink in her image with such fervor he can manage little else. _It's not banal, is it?_ His heart murmurs, pulsing against his rib cage in defiance and disagreement, shaking off calluses of doubt that resided unchallenged for so long.

He breathes and tries again. "Do you have a moment?"

Skyhold is teaming with people streaming from every nook and cranny. It makes him long for the quiet corners of Haven, its rundown apartments and dirt paths. There was peace there, a modicum of privacy, even though there was nothing more than rooftops and straw walls between them. Now, the only secluded setting is her quarters.

They climb the small staircase to her bedroom, silent as Chantry mice. Solas realizes, with no shortage of alarm, that he has thought of nothing to say. His litany of proud proclamations and logical debates lie in a jumbled heap at his feet. They are meaningless. Inconsequential. After all, what are words in the face of her brilliant smile? What are boundaries to a woman who breaks all that stand before her? And this is the crux of it, isn't it? Her indomitable spirit. Her boundless curiosity. In all his machinations and calculations, and eons of careful planning, he could not foresee the arrival of such a creature—for someone to shake the pillars of his convictions so wholly.

_And if there is one… could there be… what if._

She changes… everything. It's a threatening notion, a whisper of dissent he should squash. It will be his undoing.

Solas pulls ahead and stalks towards the terrace, hoping the slopes of the Frostbacks unveil some secret wisdom or imbue him with the courage to do what must be done. They are silent, still, and unchanging. Utterly unhelpful. And so, as has become his custom, Solas quells his dismay with questions.

"What were you like before the Anchor? Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?

"If it had, do you really think I'd have noticed?"

 _Clever_. "No, that's an excellent point."

Her brow arches. "Why do you ask?"

"You show a wisdom I have not seen since…" _Easy..._ "Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected."

There's a flicker of confusion, a skepticism he has come to expect from her. This knowledge doesn't make the flutter of his heart any easier, or the fleeting, winged worry that taunts him any less real. _What if she knows? What if she suspects?_

"Sorry to disappoint," she says through a smile.

"It's not disappointing it's…" _Astonishing. Dangerous. Hopeful._ "Most people are predictable. You have shown subtly in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish have raised someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?" _Is this world worth saving after all?_

"Most of the Dalish care more about impressing other hunters with a good shot or talking about how awful humans are." Her scowl leaves deep grooves on her forehead. "There are only a few who seem to care about the old ways."

Validation and disappointment wrestle in his gut, fighting for a foothold. He's not sure which one he feels more strongly at her admittance. In the end, he smiles and consoles himself with the fact that he is right—he always has been. The Inquisitor is unique, an anomaly, and though the thought does little to mend the more immediate problems of his feelings, it allows him to postpone his judgment of Thedas. At least, for a little while.

"Perhaps that it is. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world. But not you."

"So what does this mean, Solas?" Coral lips pucker with curiosity. The sight sends a shiver up his spine.

"It means I have not forgotten the kiss."

There is truth, omittance of fact, and lies. Solas fails to guard his feelings as he has done countless times before. He should not have kissed her in Haven, he should not have invited her to talk, and he should not have told her the truth of his concerns now.

"Good."

The knot in his throat sinks to his stomach. Rosa is feline in nature, graceful, and in control of her faculties in a way he admires—in a fashion that reminds him of himself. _Long ago._

She understands her effect, the chaos she inflicts on his mental state. Rosa stands too close, too often, seizing any opportunity to ease herself into his personal space. He delights in her random touches, the brush of her shoulder against his; the tip of her fingers against his hipbone; her warm breath around his neck as they consult a map in some Maker-forsaken hole in Thedas. Solas remembers each instance with alarming clarity.

When she closes the gap between them, offers her face with all its tiny perfections and imperfections, and waits, Solas knows he has lost without ever being given a chance to fight.

 _You can't._ Solas shakes his head, ignoring the ache that claws at the base of his gut. He turns to leave.

Rosa stops him. "Don't go."

"It would be kinder in the long-run, but losing you would…"

Her lips are soft. They are better than in the Fade—in any dream, in any reality. She gives a low moan in the back of her throat, a vibration Solas feels as his tongue curls over hers. It takes him a moment to register the cold hands at his waist, the nails that snag on the holes on his tunic. Her touch is urgent, as all young lovers are. Desire flares in his chest, hot, wanting, and desperate. The bed is just out of reach, her skin, only a layer from his own. There are so few obstacles in the way of what he wants— _what they both want_ —that he can picture it so clearly; the echo of her moans, the taste of her sweat, the jut of her breasts, the wet heat between her legs. Solas wants to hear her beg, force broken elvish from her lips, feel her clench around his fingers. He can—

_You can't._

The fantasy fades as it always does—as it must do. Reason rears its dull head, extinguishing desire like water on fire. 

_She doesn't even know who you are._

He finds the frayed threads of his resolve and pulls away before he's consumed by lust.

Solas isn't what they say he is. He isn't omnipotent, magnanimous, and infallible. He is prideful, hotheaded, and in-love, with a heart that bleeds when she hurts; that pines when she approaches; that breaks every time he turns away.

"Ar lath—"

* * *

The mattress squeaks.

Solas wakes in the dark. The embers in the hearth are dim, no more than crimson shards of scorched wood. The room is quiet.

Solas blinks, forcefully trying to rid the dream— _no, the memory_ —of Rosa's lips from his mind. The experience has shaken him. He snakes a hand to his chest and feels his heart quake. It's heavier somehow, more troubled, more pained—racked with grief and agony and fear and—

Rosa stifles a yawn and stretches. Clothes rustle as they're discarded on the stone floor. Solas doesn't make a sound, doesn't dare, and stares into the empty lounge in front of him.

She slips under the covers, careful not to disturb him. There is no movement, no sound save the low and rhythmic huffs of her breathing.

_Until..._

Her fingers are barely perceptible at first. They touch Solas' shoulder blade, trace the curve of his spine, and settle over his ribs. She stops. She shuffles.

Solas feels wisps of hair slide against his waist. Suddenly, she presses her forehead against his back. Warm air rushes over his skin as she sighs contentedly.

"Ma, vhenan."


	21. Numeal Man

"Sleep well?" Rosa asks. She does not look round from the top of the stone stairwell. 

"You should have woken me," Solas says, padding up the landing. Cole feeds the horses in the courtyard below, twittering away as he works. They take a moment to watch him.

"I thought I'd let you rest. We'll be on the road for some time." She glances in his direction. "You were muttering in your sleep."

Solas pushes the memory of the kiss from his mind and clears his throat. "Nothing embarrassing, I hope?"

"Do you think I'd tell you if it was?"

Cole laughs as if he has just heard an excellent joke. He pats the speckled nose of his horse before scooping up their empty buckets to store in the barn. The sight brings a smile to Rosa's lips.

"So," she begins slowly, "did you have any interesting dreams?"

"Oh yes."

When he doesn't take the matter further, Rosa scowls. "Of?"

"That's for me to know, Inquisitor." Solas leaves her to join Cole, savoring the jolted look on her face, the way her cheeks redden at the moniker.

Cole greets him with a wave. "You're awake, good. Being woken up is not as fun as waking up yourself," he admits awkwardly. "Are you ready to leave?"

"So soon? Where are we headed?"

"Down the valley. We'll follow the river to Rainesfere, resupply in Redcliffe, and then make our way south," Rosa answers, marching past her companions to her horse. She makes a point of avoiding Solas' gaze altogether. "It should take us four days to reach Rainesfere if the weather holds."

Cole glares at Rosa, his scowl partially concealed by the saddle he hides behind. "I don't think we should stop in Rainesfere."

"It's the closest town outside Skyhold."

"We could go to Haven," Cole presses, mouth drawn in a thin line.

"That will take us further from our end destination." Rosa angles the toe of her boot against the stirrup and fixes Cole with a glower. "Is there some pressing reason we should be avoiding Rainesfere? You're not a wanted man in Bann's lands, are you?"

"Blackwall is there," he mutters indignantly.

"And? You were _friends_ with Blackwall." The horse jitters from side to side as Rosa hoists herself onto its back.

"He doesn't like Solas."

Rosa protests but comes to acknowledge the point with a nod. "That was before."

"And Blackwall likes—"

" _That_ was also before," Rosa says sharply, twisting the reins in her hand to guide the horse to the raised gates. She looks over at Solas. "Coming?"

He rewards her with a wry smile. "Do I have a choice?"

* * *

The trip down the Frostbacks is more seamless than their trip up it. The recent rains have darkened the path and heightened the trees' verdant greens, giving their horses ample purchase underfoot and their riders a great many things to admire.

They pass the hours with thoughtful commentary and wistful reminiscence. Cole fills Solas in on his past ten years, his travels with Mary, the lives of those he met along the way, and everything in-between. Occasionally, he slips into his old way of speaking, which only the horses and Solas seem to understand.

Solas asks questions when possible. Cole answers as much as he can. When the spirit forgets himself and their quarry's veiled attempts to extract more _pointed_ information, Rosa is quick to dampen the conversation with a scowl.

Despite her strict command, Rosa smiles often and is the first to laugh at Cole's fatuous jokes. It's a side of her Solas has yet to see, a secret window into what was—and perhaps, what could be. Their guide is quiet for most of the trip—always looking forward, never back. She is calm, composed, and, ultimately, a different person from when they met. When Solas touches her waist, she no longer recoils; when he presses into her back on the banks of a steep slope, she urges him to hold on.

They arrive at the river's source before nightfall. Although the valley has evened out, the horses exhibit an unwillingness to go further. Rosa leaves her seat to lead them on foot, navigating pointed brushes and unseen grooves until she finds a spot to rest.

Setting up camp is difficult in the low light, but they manage to even the ground for their beds and collect enough dry foliage for a fire, which Rosa conjures with a spell much to Cole's annoyance. When their chores are done, the trio settles around their fire, tending to sore muscles and aching joints in silence. Chirping crickets, the trickle of a nearby brook, and Cole's growling stomach come together to create a highly unique ambiance—one Rosa cannot help but comment on.

"Cole, there are some scraps of bread in my bag. Take some."

He scrunches his nose and sinks further into his quilt. "It's okay."

"The pickings will be better tomorrow now that we've crossed onto level ground," she offers as if hopeful promises might fill the void in his gut. "If it were light, I'd go hunt myself." As she presses the heel of her palm into her thigh, she winces.

"Are you hurt?" Solas murmurs, ears perking at the hiss that strains through the gaps in her teeth.

"No, I'm just weary from travel." Her smile is fragile. With a groan, she struggles to her feet. "I think I'll enjoy a quick soak in the river. The cold should curb the pain and get the stench of horse off me."

Rosa reaches for the walking stick beside her bed. Cole watches as it shifts and stretches into her staff, concern written plainly across his features. She mutters a few words and a soft light glows from the opal stone embedded in the staff's crown. Rosa uses it to guide her steps beyond the camp, toward the soft susurrus of running water.

"She's going to be cold," Cole grumbles. "And she hasn't brought her blanket."

"I'm sure she can warm herself with magic. There's no harm in that, surely?" Solas says. He fingers his coarse blanket and peers into the fire, studying the way the flames twist and turn on its bed of leaves, twigs, and bark.

"It's not good for her."

When Solas lumbers into another question, Cole shakes his head preemptively. "Not now. Soon, but not tonight. It's too pretty for sad stories." He glances up into the clear sky. His azure eyes seem white in the light of the moon. "You should go check on her, make sure she's safe," Cole adds abruptly, just as Solas pulls the covers over his chest.

"What? If you're so concerned, why don't you check?"

"Because she doesn't like it when I do that. I tried to once in Skyhold. I thought she drowned. She took such awfully long baths."

"And?"

"And she threw a bar of soap at me and said a lot of things in Elvish. I don't think they were nice things."

Solas chuckles. "I don't need to have stuff thrown at me, Compassion."

"She won't throw anything at you—you've seen her naked lots of times."

The blush that floods his cheeks is raw, hot, and prickly. Solas feels its effects from the hollow of his cheeks up to the tips of his ears. "That's not true!"

"You sound very sure for someone who doesn't remember a lot," Cole challenges.

"Cole," Solas says with as much authority as he can muster, "I'm not going. I'm putting my foot down."

* * *

Solas tests the ground with an uncertain touch of his foot. Even with the moon to guide him, the terrain is challenging to navigate. He utters a curse and presses forward, arms hovering on either side to cushion his inevitable fall. His only consolation is that the rush of running water has gotten louder. With any luck—and no bone-breaking tumbles—he should find her soon.

The river that feeds Lake Calenhad appears more suddenly than a river of that size should. Solas stops beside the bank's muddy walls, scarcely avoiding what would have been a painful descent into a plane of brushes and smooth stones. The elf shudders, feeling nothing but air beneath the sole of one shoe. "Cole is trying to get me killed," he grumbles as he presses onward.

The river undulates in a gentle rhythm, shimmering like a kaleidoscope of tiny fish scales. He spots Rosa downriver. She is naked from the waist up, her auburn hair plastered against her pale skin. A jagged network of alabaster scars carves her back into small portions. The scene stirs something within him. It reminds him of his promise.

_"In another world."_

Rosa sighs and snakes an arm round her chest. She turns. "Cole, I appreciate the concern, but I'm just—" Her eyes widen in surprise. 

Solas lowers his gaze. "Cole sent me."

He hears her scoff and listens as she wades towards the shore. Her feet come into view first. Solas keeps his head down and sucks in a breath—he does not look up until Rosa tells him to.

"You seem preoccupied," she continues as she tightens the drawstring around her trousers. "Was the sight of my back too much for you?"

He gives a wan smile. "No, just… this place is familiar."

"I don't think we've stopped here before."

"I'm aware, but I—" Solas falters. He is unsure whether to continue. The Inquisitor has been prickly at best when it comes to his memories. "It reminds me of..."

Rosa watches him with renewed interest. "You said something when we met," she says after a pause. "You said something that only Solas would know."

He pales. Hazy images manifest in the forefront of his mind: two halla statues, a lake, a full-moon; Rosa's hopeful face crisscrossed with faded tattoos; a whisper of hope and the dull spark of optimism as his lips find hers. And sadness, sudden all-consuming heart-ache; her eyes bright with tears—and words, spoken softly across time and space, issuing a promise made deep within his heart.

"In another world," he whispers.

She nods. "Do you remember much of that night?"

"It was the most complete memory I had. But the more I look back, the more I realize how fragmented it is. How incomplete." Solas rubs his neck. "I wish I had known that before I met you. It was… callous of me to speak of things I know nothing about. Without memory, they are empty words."

Rosa strokes the side of his face. The gesture catches him off-guard. "They're not empty."

The moment is fleeting. She pulls away and slips past him to brave the steep knoll of the hill alone. Solas remains by the river a little longer, his thoughts dark with worry.


	22. Rainesfere

It takes them four days to get to the outskirts of Rainesfere—four days of rugged terrain, aching muscles, and stale scraps of food. The first signs of farmland are a welcome sight.

Rosa does not have to look hard to find news of Blackwall. While questioning a young family of brewers, she is overheard by an old man with a crooked jaw and smattering of silver hair. "Young Thom Rainier, d'ya say?" he says, nodding to himself from the comfort of his patio chair. "You've got a long walk ahead of yous. He lives in a big house near the Chantry."

They do not tarry. Egged by the constant ache of their empty bellies, they wade through dirt paths and stumble through tall grain fields for the better part of a day. For the first time since they left Jader, Cole is quiet, pensive, and reserved, preferring to watch his navel or the back of his horse's neck than engage in conversation. Rosa is equally withdrawn, but Solas has come to expect as much.

Eventually, the making of a small hamlet springs into view. Arl Teagan's lands have flourished since the Blight, growing out of Redcliffe's shadow to become a bustling town blessed by long summers and warm rains. Nevertheless, it retains the hallmarks of any rural hub: a strong sense of community and an acute suspicion of strangers. As they trot through the town's center, dozens of eyes watch their every move. It makes Rosa think of the good old days when an elf in any human city begged notice.

A home matching the description of Blackwall's house is found near the Chantry in a quiet part of town far removed from the bazaar, inns, and royal estate. The dirt path curls into the porch of a large, albeit derelict cottage that has seen better days. There are gaps in the roof, broken shutters, and a myriad of chipped paint and plaster, but the house itself is spacious, with two floors and a vibrant garden that is well tended to. Rosa guides the horse down the narrow walkway, mindful of the flowering plants that line it. 

Thom Rainer is there to greet them before they are halfway up the yard, pushing his considerable bulk through a door that is too short and narrow. Rosa softens at the sight of his broad shoulders and trademark beard now black in places, white in others. He squints as they approach. It is only when Cole yells a greeting does he smile.

The moment is short-lived, as Rosa knows it would be. As they tie the horses and approach, the Inquisitor's lively reception is all but ignored. Thom Rainier is looking past her, his face white, eyes widening in shock, horror, and anger. "Maker's tit, who the _fuck_ is that?"

* * *

Rosa sits in an uncomfortable wood chair. Blackwall looms over her like some great, rugged bear, watching Solas who waits by the entrance as instructed. The elf's eyes never stray far from the short sword in their host's hands. Only Cole, content to gorges on leftover pheasant, seems unperturbed by the heavy ambiance.

"You better start making sense, Inquisitor," Thom grumbles.

"Trust me, I am as surprised as you are."

"I doubt it." He huffs and sheaths his sword.

"I am sorry I didn't write to you about our arrival. It's been... quite a series of unforeseeable events."

"But it's him, right? I mean," he falters as he studies Solas' hair and young face. "Maker, it's _impossible_."

"If I might—"

Blackwall fixes Solas in a glower. "Shut it."

Rosa rises from the chair. She rests her hand on the old soldier's chest, pleading for patience. "It is, but it's not him."

"That's helpful."

"He doesn't remember everything. In fact, he barely remembers anything at all."

"So how'd you know it's him? Solas was a grown man—this could be some runty impersonator."

"It's 'im," Cole interjects mid-chew, coral lips glistening with grease.

"The details won't make it any easier to explain. Just… trust us on this one, Thom."

Blackwall scowls and storms past the unlit hearth to his kitchen and back again. He repeats this several times, bushy brows curling and furrowing. Eventually, he makes his way to Solas, stopping inches from his face. "D'you remember me, lad?" he asks.

Solas backs away and gives a timid nod. "Partially."

"Awlright. Tell me something you remember about me from before."

Solas doesn't answer immediately. "You… used to yell at recruits," he offers. "You said it was the only way they'd learn."

Thom snorts and looks away. "You said that, actually." He glances at Rosa. "Did you tell him?"

"No. Cole says we can't. It won't help him remember."

"And do you want him to remember?" he challenges. Blackwall's face is tight, his gaze steady. "Do we want this nut to remember what he tried to do—what he almost did?"

"Blackwall." Rosa's tone is sharp. Commanding. It has the desired effect.

He shuffles past the Inquisitor and throws his bulk into the small seat in front of her. "It's just Thom now." For a moment, he looks his years, hunched over his folded legs, head sagging between his shoulders. "Tell me one thing."

"Ask away."

"Did you do this?"

Rosa stiffens at the question. "No."

"What if what you did before—"

"It didn't work, Thom. And I couldn't try it again even if I wanted to." She leans over, pats his leg, and offers him a friendly smile. "Promise."

Cole's sudden burp echoes across the room. Rosa and their host look over. He points at the collection of bones on his porcelain plate. "Sorry… is there anymore?"


	23. Diamondback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always loved the “illicit non-love affair Blackwall and Josephine so wanted to add it in here I also think my Quizzy had a small thing with a Blackwall post Trespasser, too!

The tavern bustles with witless boys and round-bellied men enjoying themselves after a hard day on the fields.

The village's perception of the newcomers improves, morphing from suspicion into curiosity. Thom, who appears to know each of the tavern-goers by name, greets them with hearty hellos and the occasional embrace. A few brave souls are inquisitive enough to find out more about Thom's strange visitors. Their story is simple: Rosa is an old colleague from the Free Marches. They met on the road a little under ten years ago and worked together to bring relief to those impacted by the Breach. Cole is a friend of a friend, a healer, an occasional poet, and tag-along. Solas ends up as the child of an affair in Rosa's family, with Thom insinuating loudly and often that his mother was a whore.

Gossip spreads quickly. Soon, the tavern is well-adjusted to its new company, and go about the business of drinking and flirting with busty barmaids. Cole finds a new bosom buddy in a wandering bard, a young lad with auburn hair and freckled cheeks, and lashes so light they are barely visible. While the children play, Thom and Rosa keep to themselves, watching Solas and Cole like a pair of weary parents.

"Give him a _chance_ , Thom," Rosa says, straining to make herself heard over the commotion.

Solas sits alone at the bar, observing the crowd from behind the rim of his mug. A voluptuous barmaid does her best to catch his gaze, sauntering too and fro to collect her next tray of drinks. Solas' attempt to appear nonchalant is admirable; however, his rouged ears and wandering gaze give him away.

"Hmm," Thom smacks his lips and wipes away the froth that collects on his mustache. The alcohol has mellowed his mood, as has watching Solas for the past few hours. "He's different, isn't he?" he admits, blue eyes following the elf's awkward movements as he tries to adjust his rear on his high stool.

"He is… young, I suppose." Her tone of admiration does not go unnoticed.

"Oh, Rosa," Thom scoffs.

"What?"

"A woman of your years—"

She silences him by shoving the nub of her arm against his rib cage. It does little to quell his laughter. "Behave, Blackwall."

"Shh, don't use that name here."

"Then behave," she warns him again.

"I'm just saying. A… lady of your years will eat the poor lad alive. He's as nervous as a Chantry girl."

"Hah, perhaps."

Rosa watches Solas with renewed interest and thinks back to the moment of their meeting—the timid touches and narrowed eyes, the weight of his unwavering gaze. _Perhaps…_

"I—erm—I'm sorry about not coming to Skyhold. Cassandra wrote."

"Don't worry. I know why you didn't come," Rosa says, lips curing into a secretive smile.

Thom lowers his gaze. "Was she well?"

"Josephine? Very. And as beautiful as ever."

"Oh, rub it in why don't you."

"She would have liked to have seen you."

"Aye. But it's an unnecessary heartache."

"I understand."

He rumbles to his feet and points at the bar. "C'mon then, enough reminiscing. Let's get more ale. I want to test something."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Relax. I'm just going to offer the lad a chance to play some Diamondback with an old codger like me."

* * *

Rosa rubs her arm and waits for Blackwall to unlock the door. She groans when he drunkenly misses the lock for the fourth time. Cole giggles and slumps into Solas' shoulder. The pair stagger together like stalks of wheat in the breeze.

"I can't believe you beat me," Blackwall says to the door, his red face contorting with surprise. "After one game."

"Beginner's luck?" Solas says with a pleased chuckle.

"And the next five times?"

"Elven luck?" He smiles.

Blackwall manages to open the door. "Boys, you're upstairs. Rooms not too tidy, but it'll do. Rosa, you've got downstairs."

"Thank you, Thom. For the food and lodging," she says cordially. Her cheeks are warm, and her teeth feel fuzzy. "Cole, can you escort Solas to bed?"

Cole blinks up at her in confusion. "I miss Mary's pillows, Rosa. Solas doesn't have nice ones. It makes me sad."

"Oh, for—Solas, can you escort Cole to bed, please?"

"As you wish," the elf replies with a wry smile, torso bent in an elegant bow. Rosa shoes them away and watches as they navigate the tall staircase to their room.

Blackwall reclines into what she assumes is his favorite chair—a throne of padded dark leather creased from use. He wiggles a decanter of amber liquid and two small glasses.

"A word, Inquisitor?"

* * *

Rosa squints. The whiskey burns. She bites the inside of her cheek to mask her grimace.

"It's an acquired taste," Thom chortles, reclining into his chair. A fire burns in the hearth. He watches the flames with heavy-lidded eyes. "I've been thinking about what you told me—spirit things aside," he begins, "and wanted to ask what your next move is."

"Helping him recover his memories. Cole… thinks they can be found in places, in people, and in the Fade. We've tried the latter. It helped, somewhat, but he doesn't remember his distant past or much of what happened after the Breach."

"And Skyhold?"

She smiles. "Parts. Enough. Without the notion of why he was there."

"Then it's meaningless," he says with a snort. He takes another shot and hisses. "What about," he flicks his hand back and forth between them. "You know—your relationship."

"He remembers."

"And how do you feel about that?"

Rosa shrugs, ignoring the uptick in her pulse. "I'm… managing. It's a lot, sometimes," she admits.

"Naturally."

The floorboards creak. Cole's complaints are indistinct; Solas replies with something unintelligible.

"You've got to be careful," Blackwall warns. "Regardless of how he is now, he is still _him_." He stands with a groan and walks towards the dining table, placing the decanter and glass down with a thud. "'Ave you considered _not_ helping him get his memories back?"

She swallows. The alcohol has left her throat intolerably dry. "What?"

"It might be kinder. Safer."

"I—" Rosa knows what he's insinuating. It has crossed her thoughts. She has dwelled on it during supper, on the road, while Cole rambles. It's the whisper in the back of her mind, the doubt that claws at her chest, the shard that cuts when he smiles.

_What if he tries to bring down the veil again?_

"It's wrong to deny him a past, Thom."

He huffs and folds his arms. "I'm just saying you should consider it. He's a sweet lad now, but if he finds out what he did, what he's done—what _you_ did to him, for him, I—"

" _Please_ ," Rosa says weakly, "I don't want to consider the past, not now."

Thom walks towards her with measured steps. He pats the top of her head and strokes her hair with a calloused hand. His touch is soft—familiar. It reminds her of _then_ : an easier time, where meaningless kisses in a run-down stable was a sufficient balm for heartbreak, for the pain of abandonment. Rosa eases into his touch and closes her eyes, and for a moment, _just a moment_ , there is peace.

"If you had to do it again… if you _had_ to, could you?"

"No," she murmurs. "I couldn't."

* * *

Solas watches from the top of the stairs, turning only when Rosa rises from her seat. The two embrace, a sight fragmented by the planks of wood that block his view.

He creeps back to his room and closes the door as gently as his shaking hands can muster.


	24. The Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This gets a little confusing with back and forth and dreams. Didn't want to make anything too distinct.

They depart before noon the next day. Blackwall ensures they are well supplied, filling their bags with bread, biscuits, jams, and a canister of whiskey. He shares a private word with each of them and helps them saddle their horses. 

It takes all her strength to nudge her horse down the dirt path. It would be so much easier to stay—to take off her traveling clothes and lounge by a warm fire, even if only for a little while. There is peace here—acceptance. 

As they weave through the hamlet, Rosa wonders how different her life might have been had stayed with Thom—if she had pursued him instead of clinging to the memory of lost love. Perhaps she would be here now, tending to the herbs in his garden, listening to the echoes of their children's laughter from open behind shuttered windows. She shakes her head and suppresses a grin. A foolish daydream, logic warns, tempering the unexpected musing of her heart. 

"You seem to be in a good mood," Solas remarks, fingers flexing around her waist. 

"Do I?"

"You tense when you smile."

His observation makes her self-conscious. She stiffens and sits a little higher in her saddle. "I suppose I am."

"It was nice to see Blackwall," Cole says as he dusts the crumbs from his trousers. "Even if he is more white than black now."

"Perhaps you would like to stay longer?" Solas' tone is clipped, bordering on sarcastic. 

It sends a shiver up her spine. For a moment, Solas sounds like he used to, jaded, all-knowing, and unimpressed. It's the voice of a man that has seen it all, done it all, who admonishes her when she's hotheaded, who answers her enthusiasm for Dalish culture with dismissal. 

"No," Cole answers, weighing-in when Rosa does not. "I prefer Redcliffe, the water is prettier."   
  
Neither elf deigns him with a reply.

* * *

The first day of travel is awkward, punctuated by long silences. They keep near the fringes of Lake Calenhad, following the beaten path through rugged terrain peppered with jagged rocks and steep slopes. On the road, they cross paths with a handful of travelers: a middle-aged dwarven merchant with two mules loaded with canvas sacks, a family of _seems,_ and a suspicious-looking elf with a walking stick much like Rosa's own. 

Exchanges between the three, if any, are brief, but even that is a welcome relief from Solas' abrupt melancholy. Despite their best efforts, he is silent during conversations, and unwilling to string together more than a few syllables in response to their questions. Rosa gives up by evening. Cole is unshakable in his resolve, and engages with what is essentially a brick wall until sunset.

The second day brings little else except the promise of Redcliffe by nightfall. It is noon when Rosa stops the horse and listens, ears twitching like a wary deer on an open plain.

"What is it?" Solas says hoarsely, peering over the knolls and hills into a dense canopy if forest.

"Stay," Rosa says, descending from her mount before stalking towards the glade, leaving Cole and Solas to watch in bewilderment. 

"Maybe she found something to eat?" Cole suggests as he dismounts. 

Solas shakes his head and concentrates. When the wind settles, he hears it—the rumble of laughter, song, and string. "I can hear something." 

Cole nods and leads his horse towards his. "Maybe they are Rosa's people." When Solas shoots him a confused look, he adds, "Dalish." 

"Do you think she will be gone long?" 

"Who can say. Just to be safe, perhaps you should go with her."

" _Fenedhis_ , Cole! Not this again." 

The spirit shrugs innocently and offers his hand. "I'll watch the horses." 

* * *

The Dalish encampment is easy to find. Half a kilometre from the shore in a stone valley protected by thick trees and sweeping hills, Solas spots the fin of an aravel. Near a campfire dotted with blackened pebbles and white ash, stands a congregation of elves. Some are dancing while others watch from the sidelines. Many are deep in conversation, straining to be heard over the dulcet tones of an instrument unknown to Solas. He spots Rosa by the mouth of the valley. She stands awkwardly, observing them like a child left out from play. 

A cold snap winds up his hands, making them clammy with sweat. As he studies their distant faces, the thin sprawls of ink across their cheeks, lips and brows, blurs. 

He hears the crunch of leaves beneath his knees. Coarse bark splinters along his palm as he grapples for something to cling to. There is pain, brief and sharp, and fleeting.

And then nothing. 

* * *

_He is here again, in this place of night and moonlight and seclusion. Rosa is unmade by his words, her young face contorted in disbelief, rage, and sadness. He watches her expression with pity and hates himself for revealing such an unnecessary truth._

_"If you like, I know a spell," he hears himself say, feels dry lips part to make way for heavy words. "I can remove the vallaslin."_

* * *

_"Ver a vallaslin ve."_

_The old man touches his face. He kneels on the stone ground and raises his head, revealing a faded vallaslin and the dimpled skin of burn flesh. A mob of onlookers watches the scene unfold behind him, their faces hidden beneath deep cowls and thick shadows._

_Solas cups the man’s cheeks and wipes away the tears that collect over his thumbs._

_The vallaslin glows._

* * *

"What ails him?" someone asks. The voice is deep but distinctly female. Solas cannot move or see but can hear the rumble of nervous chatter. A hand flattens against the side of his head and slips through his hair. He recognizes Rosa's touch by the feel of her small fingers. 

"I shouldn't have left him," Rosa whispers. "He could have gotten hurt—I should have—"

"Ea atish, da'len," the other consoles, "he is fine." 

* * *

_Blackwall looks over again. Solas sighs and braces for the inevitable conversation to begin._

_"You haven't said much to me since... well, you know," Blackwall, now Thom, says with downcast eyes._

_The elf feels disappointment wedge in his gut. He shouldn't indulge him, but he can't help himself._

_"There is little to say. I assumed we were alike. We'd seen war, knew its terrible costs but understood that it was necessary. But there was nothing necessary in what you did. You did not survive death and destruction. You sowed them. To feed your own desires."_

_"I know that. I see it every time I look in a mirror. I try to make up for it."_

_"By wearing another's skin. You ran away rather than face what you had done. You wasted your time." Solas regrets the words as soon as they’re said. They are words spoken in anger—anger that has nothing to do with Blackwall's circumstance._

_The inquisitor looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are soft with pity. What vestiges of hate remain seeps out of him, leaving him cold and weary. He never wants to see her look at him like that, but it is only a matter of time…_

* * *

Solas stirs. The dull ache in his knees rouses him from his sleep faster than he would like. 

"Were you in an alienage, da'len?" a woman asks. 

Rosa adjusts her legs. Her warm back press against his thigh. "In Montsimmard, for a time," she answers carefully. 

"I am surprised, child. Not many city elves are so well-versed in our customs."

"I've always admired the Dalish way of life. I suppose that's what drew me to the camp. The song I heard is usually sung at weddings, or so I'm told."

"Well-versed indeed," she repeats, equal parts impressed and suspicious. "My First has been wed. May her marriage be long and happy, Sylaise willing." 

The sound of someone approaching curtails their conversation. 

“Cole,” Rosa begins softly, “how are the horses?” 

“Happy,” the spirit says. He swivels on his heels to address the Keeper. “Thank you for feeding them. I think they like the food the halla have."

"Sathem lasa halani—it was no issue, young one." 

"Ma serannas, ha'len," Rosa adds. Her sincerity is piercing. Solas has not heard her sound so earnest, so genuine. "I am sorry my curiosity ruined such a happy moment for your family."

"Nonsense! If anything, it has given the clan something to talk about," the woman responds with the same grace and care she has shown throughout the exchange. 

As Solas prepares to reenter the world of the living, another pair of footsteps gravitates towards them. 

"'Ere we go. I've traded in for some of those herbs Keeper Aisleva suggested for the lad." 

Solas forgets himself at the familiar tone, eyelids snapping open in alarm. Above him, Blackwall's thick beard blocks his view. 

"For f—what is he doing here?" 

Cole, Rosa, Blackwall, and Keeper Aisleva jump in surprise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenedhis - curse  
> Ver a vallaslin ve - take the vallaslin away  
> Ea atish, da'len - be calm, child  
> Sathem lasa halani - pleased to give assistance  
> Ma serannas, ha’len - my thanks, keeper (elder)


	25. The Gull & Lantern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a moment to say a quick thank you for all the reviews and kudoes I've received on this story. There's honestly no greater joy than to read them. I'm sitting on 500 constitution and 300+ willpower. I can take on all the remaining Archdemons if I have to :)

Solas doesn't join them for supper, preferring to lie on Keep Aisleva's makeshift bed and eavesdrop on their conversations from afar. Much to his annoyance, they seem to be having a good time. 

Rosa has spoken more in the last few hours than she has in the past two weeks, chirping away to the hunters, the newlyweds, and the traders, never straying far from the Keeper's side. Thom—to Solas’ infinite annoyance—has acclimatized well, and could be heard swapping stories with a gaggle of young elves, wowing them with tales of the Deep Roads and High Dragons and other wonders Solas doubts are even real. Cole is his only confidant, flitting between him and the other group like a messenger bird. When the spirit approaches again, Solas pretends to be deeply immersed in the threading of his bedroll. 

"I've brought you some bread," Cole murmurs to his back. "It's sour and fluffy like cake left in the sun. Will you try some?"

He mumbles a _no_. 

Cole sits next to him all the same, unmoved by his performance. "Why didn't you tell Rosa you remembered something?" he asks. 

Solas considers lying but dismisses the thought. Cole is strangely attuned to his fibbing. "It didn't seem like the right time."

"Because of Blackwall?"

"Because we are in a strange encampment with people I don't know."

Thom claps his hands and bellows, imitating the roar, with some accuracy, of an angry bear. 

Solas tenses and folds his arms close to his body. "And yes, Blackwall," he grumbles. "What is he even doing here?"

"He told Rosa he wanted to ride with us to Redcliffe. To 'ease his worries' and pick up some goods from the market." 

"What worries? That I might attack the Inquisitor like some rabid dog?"

"Wolf," Cole supplements to no clear end. "You should be happy he came. Who knows how long you would have been lying in the dirt. Rosa had no idea you fell." 

"I didn't fall, I—" The shallow cuts in his knees seem to ache in protest. "I fell asleep standing up."

"You shouldn't get into the habit of doing that. Beds are much nicer."

When Solas swears under his breath, Cole comforts him with a hand on his shoulder. "Turn around," he says, "I want to show you something."

He does as he is bid and rolls to face the camp. 

Cole points to Rosa. She is sat by the fire, engrossed in whatever the Keeper tells her; full lips etched into a smile that slackens only to chuckle. Blackwall looks up each time she laughs, eyes focused as if to capture each instance with a glance. 

"Are you not scared Thom will try and take her for himself?" 

"No." Solas is too quick with his denial, too brusque. The tone doesn't match his look of dejection or lessen the worry-line that forms between his brows. He pulls at the frayed threads of linen beneath his fingers over and over, plucking and peeling and unraveling until the spot is thin and bare. His apathy does not go unpunished 

Cole cups his jaw in a grip that is too tight for comfort and coaxes his face upwards. His icy blue eyes are wide and searching, peering into his mind as if to pluck the seed of his melancholy from his heart. For the first time, Solas can see the spirit within, taste the ethereal note of his existence burning inside a prison of flesh and bone. "You should be, Solas,” he says quietly. Cole’s disappointment ebbs; the hand on Solas’ face falls. "I'm going to sit with Rosa—you should try to get some rest. We'll be leaving before dawn." 

* * *

Solas wakes with a pat on his back. The sky overhead is purple on the horizon with tendrils of orange peeking through the trees. Twittering birds herald a new day from hidden nests buried in the canopy. 

"How are you feeling?" Rosa whispers as he sits up. The camp is quiet, save for Blackwall's rolling snore and the grunts of grazing halla. 

"Better, thank you," he responds, evading her gaze. She watches him hungrily, eyes darting like two beads across her face. Her concern shames him, and puts into perspective how unnecessarily reserved he has been—how untoward. She deserves more than his resentment, and yet, he can't let go of his ire or shake the thorn of inadequacy that has taken root in his heart. 

Rosa steps away, sensing his discomfort. "If you don't want to tell me what happened, at least confide in Cole. I'm sure he can help."

He nods and watches as she takes turns waking Cole and Blackwall. While she and Thom whisper amongst themselves, Solas readies the horses and pretends not to hear her giggle at his jokes. 

* * *

They reach Redcliffe's city gates by sunset, just in time to see merchants dismantling their stalls and throngs of fishermen docking in the harbor. The town is much larger than Rosa remembers, with apartments, houses, and shops crammed onto the hills around Lake Calenhad. The only constant is Redcliffe Castle, which lords over the land with its spires of red brick and tall, uneven walls. 

After being on the road, the sight of so many Fereldens is jarring. Unlike the Dalish, with their soft words and musical cadence, the descent through the village center is marked by guffaws of laughter, shouting, and the crass jokes of the common folk. 

"I didn't realize how busy it'd be," Thom remarks, trotting up beside Rosa. "I'd become quite accustomed to sleepy Rainsfere." 

"It's different," she agrees with a weak smile. She can feel Solas' eyes on her, as they have been for most of the trip, burrowing into the back of her skull. He's been withdrawn since they left Rainsfere—distant. She mulls over the possibility of him remembering something, of having recollections of some dark past she is not privy to. Any questions asked are deflected, any opportunities to discuss his feelings wasted on polite conversation and small talk.

"Yer doing that thing you do," Blackwall says as he dismounts. When Rosa blinks back at him in confusion, he knots his brows and grimaces in imitation. "When you're thousands of miles away—the Pensive Inquisitor, I call it." 

"You've named my expression?"

"Only a few of them." 

Solas and Cole lead their horses to the tying pole. Rosa stifles her laughter as they pass, a reflex she does not anticipate. 

"Cole mentioned the Gull and Lantern usually have boarding," Solas announces. "How many rooms should we ask for?" 

It's a strange thing for a grown woman with no love for prudishness to get riled up at such a simple question, but she does. "Three," she replies a little too sharply. 

Solas' lips curl into the semblance of a smile—his first in three days. "I'll make the necessary arrangements." 

"Excellent—that might give me enough time to find an ol' friend of mine before he closes shop. Makes the best smoked herring this side of Thedas." Blackwall turns to Rosa expectantly. "Care to join me for the walk, Inquisitor?"

The question catches her off-guard. "I—umm," she fumbles and looks at Cole for answers as if she might deign the right course of action from his face. He simply stares, blue eyes veiled behind wisps of hair. 

Solas is already half-way up the steps, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Pain gnaws at her as she watches him. There is something terribly familiar about his gait, the curve of his neck, the slope of his back. It is a sight she has seen too often—the back of a man she loves as he turns away.

Finally, Rosa nods, signing for Thom to lead the way. "I'd love to."

* * *

They return to the tavern later than intended. 

The trip to the docks is short, no more than a ten-minute walk from the horses, but Thom's man is a talker and a true salesman. His shop, which happens to be the living room of his rundown shack, is filled with all manner of smoked and salted fish. Rosa finds herself trying a little bit of everything: salmon, mackerel, whitefish, trout, sprat, and her personal favorite, smoked eel. With infectious enthusiasm, the fisherman explains what wood he uses to enhance each fish's flavor, pointing at stacks of chopped oak, maple, alder, pecan, cherry. With a sheepish smile, he divulges how he once tried using ironbark to no great success.

He quizzes Thom on his life in Rainsfere, asking after his health, work, and relationships, with a not-so-subtle wink in Rosa's direction. And when the pleasantries have run their course, he accosts them brandy, which—to no one's surprise—happens to be an excellent accompaniment to his alder-smoked salmon. 

By the time they make their way back to the Gull and Lantern, Rosa is rosy-cheeked and well-fed with an arm full of wrapped smoked eel to go. They take a moment to appreciate the griffin statue in the middle of the square, a homage to the Hero of Ferelden. As Rosa reads the plaque, straining her eyes to see the embossed words engraved there, Thom chuckles. 

"I call this the Happy Inquisitor," he says, transferring his herring from one hand to the other. 

"An acute observation," she concedes. "Your friend was quite the host."

"A good man. Knows his stuff." 

"I admit, I was a little anxious leaving Cole and Solas behind, but I'm glad I did."

"You're not their mother, Rosa—they're grown boys, they can handle themselves." 

The muffled cries from the tavern are loud, even from a distance. Rosa squints at the small signboard above it. Beside the door is Cole, hands clenched around the hem of his shirt. He looks up when they approach. Rosa notices he isn't wearing his hat. 

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Rosa murmurs as Cole jogs towards them. 

"Wait," he begs. His cheeks are flushed. Rosa can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Where is Solas?" Thom asks firmly.

"He's okay, just not himself—he's inside. Don't go in."

"Cole, this is highly suspect," Rosa says. 

"He's not himself," Cole repeats, voice breaking in a high falsetto that smacks of a child caught in some mischief. "He's had a bit to drink. I thought it would help."

"Maker's tit." Thom steps to one side and marches towards the tavern. 


	26. The Gull & Lantern P2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entitled asshole Solas time!

The tavern is crammed. There are patrons on the floor, along the walls, and every table. Those without seats stand shoulder-to-shoulder like packed sardines, clustering in the alcoves, under the stairs, beside the stacked barrels of wine, or by the counter. Rosa covers one ear and squeezes through the hoard, her small frame shoved this way and that. Blackwall covers the rear, shielding her from wayward elbows and stray legs with his body. He is the first to spot Solas.

Solas sits on the helm of a long table joined by four other people: a hard looking dwarf, an elf, a soldier, and a large woman with blonde hair and dark freckles. An elven barmaid pushes through the throng of onlookers gathered around the table and distributes a round of drinks. When she's done, Solas pats the top of his knee. She slides onto his lap and adjusts the wide-brimmed hat atop his head—Cole’s hat. 

"Well," Blackwall says gruffly, "I take it back—they're not grown-up at all." 

When he motions towards him, Rosa holds him back. "Don't. This isn't your responsibility."

"The hell it isn't." 

"Thom. Please." She nudges his side with her wrapped fish and cracks a smile. "Keep these with you till tomorrow?" 

Blackwall relents with a sigh. "You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"He's my responsibility." She turns to Cole. "Do you have the keys to the rooms?" 

He nods. 

"Go upstairs with Blackwall, unless you want to stay and drink some more?" 

Cole shakes his head and creeps through the crowds to the stairs. Blackwall follows. 

* * *

Solas is between games when she finally makes it to the table. 

His companions are angry—all of them—their faces red and furrowed and tight in various displays of grief and disappointment. 

The dwarf is particularly annoyed and utters a foreign curse as he checks his hand. "I swear, boy, if I find out yer cheatin'." 

"I'm not," Solas replies. The barmaid on his lap titters and strokes the back of his neck. She stops as Rosa approaches, eyes narrowed as she watches her slip past the row of onlookers. 

"Solas." 

He stiffens at the sound of his name but does not look up from his cards. A pile of silver and copper coins are arranged in a tidy pile beside his drink. 

"Back from your moonlit walk?" He discards a card and picks another. 

"What are you talking about?" His tone surprises her, as does the mild slur of his words.

He doesn't reply. Another card is drawn. Coins are thrown across the table. The dwarf folds in a slew of curses.

Mustering what patience she has left, Rosa strokes his arm and tries her best to ignores the way his escort tightens her fingers around his hair; how she settles into his lap with a roll of her hips. Rosa realizes she hates this girl. It's not something she is prepared to feel—not now, not over this eighteen-year-old wench with crooked teeth and straw hair. Rosa is too old for jealousy, and yet, it's here, clawing at her throat. 

Rosa retrieves her hand and rests it over her stomach. She's trembling. "Don't you think it's time to call it a night?" 

"Why on earth would I do that?" He snorts and pulls the hat over his eyes. Solas reveals his cards. 

The other elf flicks his deck away in disgust. "Dread Wolf take you," he hisses as he throws a small pouch of coins down the table. He almost succeeds in knocking Solas' drink over with it.

"Solas." 

"Vara u'em," he growls, head cocked over one shoulder. She can just about make out the tight line of his lips, his ugly sneer. 

Rosa swallows and turns on her heels before her pained expression gives her away. Over the chorus of laughs and rowdy conversation, the barmaid's giggle of victory rings the loudest. 

* * *

It's several hours before the tavern quietens down. Even now, with nothing more than the low murmur of a few remaining drunks, Rosa can't sleep. She snuggles into the bed and blinks at the wallpaper. Slivers of moonlight stream through holes in the small square drapes, illuminating a writing table, melted candle, and her pile of discarded clothes. 

She rolls the wolf's mandible in her hand and sighs. Solas' sneer is clear when she closes her eyes; the barmaid's laugh still rings in her ears.

_It hurts._

Pain is something she is intimately familiar with, an old friend that dogs her steps, that never lets go. But this is different. This is irrational. 

Rosa grimaces and thumbs the wolf's canines with gentle strokes. It shouldn't be this easy to hurt her—to be unmade by such childish actions, by a man she barely even knows. 

"He's not even mine," she tells the jaw, tutting to herself. Her pep talk does little to soothe her heavy heart and her restless mind, which replay's Solas' scornful look again, and again, and again. Logic dictates that Solas is free to do as he wants, to be who he wants regardless of their history. The love she knew died ten years ago. Reincarnation or not. 

_And yet…_

She blinks. Tears sting her eyes. Rosa chuckles at her foolishness, at her brittle heart. 

The handle of her door squeaks. Solas slinks inside with heavy footsteps. 

Rosa shoves the mandible under her pillow. "Solas?" she croaks. 

He says nothing for a moment and studies her. His face is dark and indistinguishable in the low light, but Rosa can make out the constant swaying of his arms as he wobbles from foot to foot. 

"Cole… won't let me in," he says. He's still drunk, she notes with some surprise. He stumbles towards the bed, feet thudding against the floorboards. Rosa suppresses the urge to help him and arms herself with the memory of his cold words. 

"Then sleep in Blackwall's room," she murmurs, pulling the covers over her chest. 

He considers it for a moment. When he nods and turns towards the door, Rosa thinks she is rid of him. Instead, he pushes it shut. 

"I don't think he'd like that." 

"That's too bad. Perhaps your new friend will let you stay with her?" 

He responds to her jab with a low chuckle. "I don't feel like getting smacked in the face again."

" _Again_?" 

"Again." He hobbles to the end of her bed and sits. 

Rosa edges towards them, her rage partially forgotten. "Are you hurt?" 

Solas grunts a no. 

"You keep touching your face. If you're hurt, it needs to be tended to." She adjusts the blanket and shuffles closer. "Let me see." 

He stares at the floor as navigates the contours of his temple and forehead. There's swelling above his eyebrow; dry blood pools around a cut below his cheekbone. 

"We should get this cleaned up," she murmurs. 

"I've already washed it." 

"Still." She searches the dark for a candle and points toward the desk beside her discarded clothes. "Pass me my things. I have some balm in my bag. I can dress the wound—" 

"Why?" 

The question catches her off-guard. "It could get infected."

"Why are you trying to help me?" 

Rosa considers the reason in silence. "My clothes, Solas." 

No response. With a groan, Rosa realizes she'll have to do it herself. When she stands, Solas stops her, latching onto her wrist with damp fingers. The cover slips out from under her arms. 

"Solas!"

"What if we don't go," he whispers. "What if we just go back?"

Rosa swallows, her partial nudity forgotten. 

Solas continues to stare at the floor, voicing his concerns to his feet. "What if… I don't want to remember?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vara u’em - Leave me be


	27. Apart

The blanket lies forgotten on the floor, exposing the Inquisitor to the cold. Rosa is too stunned to do anything but stare at the hand that anchors her in place. 

"Let me clean the cut," she says quietly. 

Solas doesn't let go. "Perhaps it's better this way," he continues. "You don't want me to remember—no one does."

"I do. Cole does," she says, but her words are hollow, half-truths with no certainty behind them. They are sentiments she thinks he wants to hear—that she wants to believe. 

He lets out a chuckle. "You doubt yourself. I don't blame you."

"Why are you saying this now?" She wonders what he knows, what he's heard. "Did you remember your past? When you fell, did you—"

"No, it has nothing to do with that." 

Time passes. Neither moves. Rosa feels a chill creep up her spine. Solas senses her discomfort and let's go. Finally, he looks up, eyes gliding up the floor to her legs, across her waist, and along her breasts before resting on her face. His expression is obscure. 

"Could this ever be enough? Could I ever be _enough_ as I am?" 

"Solas, you've had a lot to drink. Now's not the time." 

Solas stands. In one swift gesture, he cups her face. "Am I not enough?" His warm breath tickles the end of her nose. 

Rosa peers into his dark, hooded eyes with pity. She can taste his confusion, his despair. "You are not whole… you are… apart from yourself."

"From a part that no one cares for." His fingers climb the curves of her face and the blades of her ears. They slide down her neck, across her collarbones, and down her arms. He recoils when he meets the nub of her elbow. "I did this to you—I took this away." 

"Yes." 

"And this is the man you want to bring back? A man who _disfigured_ you?" 

"It's not about want," she says weakly. Rosa runs her tongue over her lips and swallows. "These are your memories. This is your right." 

"And if I refuse? What then?"

"I… don't know." 

He laughs hoarsely. "Then you do know: me, as I am now, is not enough."

Rosa collects her blanket and shuffles to the bedside table. She returns with a mug of water and forces it into his hand. "Drink this and come to bed," she tells him. 

Solas does as he is told and drinks, and strips out of his traveling clothes with a huff. 

Rosa waits on her side of the mattress and attempts to exercise some control over her pounding heart. _What if… I don't want to remember… no, that's impossible_! She scowls at the wall. _How can he say that?_ _How can he believe the best course of action is ignorance?_

 _But he's not the only one that thinks it,_ her conscience reminds her. She pictures Thom's weary face, his lapis blue eyes as they reflect the glow of the fire. _Better. Safer to forget. But is it right? Is it right to deny a man his past?_

_The voices whisper and hiss and warble. They call to Rosa, these echoes, calling to her to weigh on the matter personally—as they have done since the moment Solas' memories first returned._

_No_ _. He must remember. You must continue._

Solas touches her arm, shocking her out of reverie. She rolls onto her back, eyes searching the dark for his countenance. 

"Ir abelas," he murmurs as he hovers over her. The mattress groans as he shifts. 

"If you're apologizing for your behavior today I—" 

"I'm not." 

His lips miss and graze the corners of her mouth. The next attempt finds its mark. Pain flares in her chest at the familiarity of his touch, at the shape of his lips against hers. A broad hand settles on the arc of her hip and guides her body towards his. Protests die in the back of her throat, morphing into unintelligent sounds as his tongue seeks hers. Things are moving too quickly. It's an irrational thought—a nonsensical one—that loses to the weight of memory. Her body remembers and reacts as it would—as it has done so many times before. 

Rosa pushes against his chest. His lips find the hollow of her throat. He mutters into her skin, a wish, a hope, and a question she pretends not to hear. She strokes the soft tufts of hair and disregards the way her core flares with longing. This is not the time. 

Her hand glows dimly. "Sleep, Solas."

Solas' slackens onto her. His head slips into the crook of her neck. Rosa listens to his even breaths and smiles despite the sudden fatigue that washes over her.

"This reminds me of something," she murmurs. A quiet laugh escapes her as she recalls the moment. "Ah—this reminds me of that time…"


	28. Indomitable Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From my other story - which is also a part of this one! Finally am able to insert it into its proper place! :D
> 
> M RATING, YA'LL: GIT READY FOR SMUT.

Solas turns the page and gives a hum of approval. Sister Laudine's Manual on Marital Instruction, it seems, wasn't a terrible suggestion after all. He would have to thank Cassandra for her wise recommendation. 

He eyes the diagram of two entwined lovers with almost apathetic interest, thumb hooked on the jut of his lower lip. The Sister's footnote, detailing her own familiarity with the position's effectiveness, ignites a measured chuckle in his throat. As he unfolds his legs and reclines into his chair, Solas realizes—with no deficit of surprise—that he's sporting a rather sad erection. Under the folds of his tunic, it is barely noticeable, but Solas is suddenly profusely aware of the gentle pressure the confines of his trouser provides. 

_Really?_ He arches a brow and rests the book on the edge of the table. _What a millennia of celibacy will do to a man,_ he muses and turns another page.

The doors of the Great Hall rumbles on its iron hinges. The sound does not phase him. He looks up from the yellow parchment to observe the candle on his desk. Wax frowns over the silver saucer, seeping into the cracks and imperfections of the wood. The flame is dim, barely enough to illuminate the wooden banisters that mark the rotunda's second floor. 

He's been reading longer than he anticipates—long enough for the denizens of Skyhold to be withdrawing from their night of Wicked Grace at Herald's Rest. Solas rubs the sleep from his eyes and considers the benefits of retiring to bed himself.

_After one more chapter._

Solas doesn't see her slip through the open door. It's only when it squeaks shut does he glance up from his book, from the small print that has commanded his focus for the better part of an evening. 

"Inquisitor?"

Rosa intimates with a strained giggle that it is, in fact, her. Bowed over, legs cobbled at the knees, her hands search the walls for purchase. 

Solas holds his breath as she begins a steady strut towards his desk. It is no small feat that she manages the task without falling. 

The Herald of Andraste, Clan Lavellan's Pride, the Leader of the Inquisition… is inordinately drunk. 

Solas closes the volume and slides it unhurriedly across the desk, with as much nonchalance he can muster. "Drinking with Iron Bull again?" he inquires, feigning ignorance.

She shakes her head. Damp tendrils of hair collect around the curve of her jaw, sticking to the contours of her cheeks, nose, and forehead. From her unbuttoned shirt down to her crumpled pants, the Inquisitor is disheveled, unmade, and unashamedly raw. The sight is fitting, cohesive—utterly aligned with her character, the purity of her conviction, and her inability to be anything _but_ what she is. There is no mask, no subterfuge, no pretext—she approaches a world founded on duplicity with candor, not pretense; love with honesty, not posturing. 

Rosa fingers the desk as she circles to his side, her heavy-lidded eyes concealed behind a line of lashes. "It's Wicked Grace night. You should have come." 

He mouths an 'oh' of dismay. "Apologies, Inquisitor. It must have slipped my mind. I've been… preoccupied."

Since their last conversation on the terrace of the Inquisitor's room, Solas has been diligent in avoiding an audience with her. Skirting war meetings, evading her at camp, diving into meaningless conversations with Varric over the place of future perfect continuous tense in modern literature—Solas has exercised any and every method to curtail their private interactions. Given the team's proclivity for alcohol during 'game night,' he was confident his evening read would proceed uninterrupted. 

"They're still playing," she adds modestly, quads colliding with a gentle thud against the arm of his chair. 

"You decided to retire early?"

Her features fall.

_No, not decided. Forced._

Solas laughs, delighting in her pursed lips and flushed face, the way her cheeks puff in ire. "Wicked Grace evokes the art of deception, lethallan. It is not in your nature; everyone in that room is a much better liar than you are."

She pins him with her muddled stare. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is it in your nature?"

He smiles, ignoring the uptick of his pulse. "When necessary."

She nods approvingly and lowers her gaze. They linger on the heavy tome in front of him. Her sudden purr of recognition fills him with dread. "Sister Laudine's Manual on Marital Instruction?" she reads, small white teeth bared in a grin. "You surprise me, Solas."

"A recommendation from Seeker Pentaghast," he says, failing to erase the nervous vibrato from his voice. "A dull read—"

Rosa leans across the chair, her body swimming into view like a ship berthing into harbor. She flips open the book, exposing a collection of women and men in several stages of undress. She turns to him expectantly, her expression smug. "A dull read?"

"I hadn't gotten that far."

When her hand brushes against his trousers, Solas attributes it to clumsiness, her fingers against his inseam a product of inebriety. When her palm thrusts over the bulge of his cock, the elf has run out of excuses for her wandering grasp. 

"It couldn't have been that bad, hahren, if _this_ is anything to go by."

"Inquisitor—" Words falter as her legs part, one knee positioned beside his thigh. She steadies herself on his arms while he grips the chair, white-knuckled and motionless like some marble carving of a long-dead king. She mounts him with careful precision. 

Rosa doesn't give him time to formulate a defense, let alone say them. She presses her lips against his, body folding against the curves of his own. He can taste the whiskey on her breath; the robust tang of her desire; the subtle note of her desperation. 

Hands glide along her waist. As her hips begin to roll, slow, teasingly against him, he holds her steady and pulls away.

"Inquisitor," he growls, hoping the title sparks some memory of who she is and what she is doing. He searches her face for some semblance of control, any hint of reservation in those narrowed eyes and parted lips. "We can't."

"Why?" Her muscles tense under his fingers, itching to move, to stir, to grind. 

"For starters, you've probably drunk enough to make a Chantry priest blush."

Her lips curl into a scowl. Hips lift, one body becomes two—hers and his. The sudden absence of pressure brings a furrow to his brow, elicits a quiet hiss from his lips. 

"You don't want to?" 

"I never said that." 

"Good." Rosa presses against him more urgently than before, the makings of a moan smothered between clenched teeth as she rocks against his length in a gentle rhythm. 

_Up, down, up, down._

Her arms wander from the chair to his chest, grasping at the loose fabric of tunic and the wolf mandible around his neck. She pulls at it, luring his face towards her to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, his nose, his cheek, a trail that takes her to the blade of his ear.

"Please," she murmurs. "Please, vhenan."

It's his undoing, the final cut that unravels the threads of his restraint. He's not strong enough to deny her, to do what must be done—should be done. He can't—not when she begs, breath hot, sweet, wanton against his flesh. 

Hips rise, meeting her downward stroke. The motion startles her, sapping the strength from her arms, wrecking her careful tempo.

_Down, down, up, down, down, up._

When she buckles, he laughs, and when a moan hitches in her chest, he laces his fingers through her hair and pulls, exposing the hollows of her throat to his lips. 

"Quiet, vhenan," Solas whispers into her collarbone, tongue lapping at the thin sheen of salt, sweat, and smoke that collects on her skin. "You don't want to wake the birds." 

He holds her there and dictates the rhythm, rutting against her trembling thighs, silencing her gasps with his mouth. Solas can't help but smile at her sensitivity, at the way her body shudders with each thrust. She responds to so little with so much, jerking against him when he sucks the tender spot beneath her jaw, sighing as he paws the supple arc of her backside. 

Solas knows she is getting close—can feel it in her quivering legs, in the harsh cadence of her voice, in the way her face contorts in concentration. Her unraveling is beautiful—captivating. Solas loses himself in her expression, in the crease above her brows, in the lips that part, wider and wider and wider. As she nears her climax, Solas slips a hand inside her shirt, exploring the scalding heat of her body for the first time. Her breasts quake against his palm, shuddering with the force of her movements. 

_Down, up, down, up, up._

She is begging for more, for less, in Elvish, Tevene, and everything in between; whispers muffled by the wrist she bites. It takes all of his energy not to cum when she does, watching her eyes darken and lose focus; the stunning architecture of her neck as her head falls to one side.

Rosa slumps into his chest and rests between the crook in his neck. Solas listens to the Inquisitor's uneven breaths and strokes her tangled hair and back. He shifts. There's a dull ache in his lower spine, the early throbbing of a bruise along his pelvis. However, these hurts are nothing compared to the gnawing pain at the base of his cock, the once-sad erection that strains against his trousers, thirsting for the source of the wet heat that pools around his smallclothes.

"Do you feel better, vhenan?" he asks, fingers snagging on the knots in her hair. When she doesn't reply, Solas gives her a gentle nudge. Only when the rush of blood in his ears dies down does he finally hear her snores.


	29. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lag on getting this up. Been feeling a bit blegh and uninspired!

She wakes with a smile on her face, the remnants of a laugh on her lips.

Dawn crests on the horizon, filling the room with a purple light. Outside, Redcliffe is quiet, save for the distant shouts of fishermen.

Rosa rolls onto her side. Solas is unexpectedly close, and peers into her face with wide eyes. It catches her off-guard. "Maker's Breath, Solas," she squeaks, drawing the cover over her neck in alarm.

He struggles to suppress a smile.

Rosa wriggles away to create some distance between them. Solas watches her move, still as a statue. A strawberry bruise has formed over the curve of his cheekbone. Above his eyebrow, the line of a small cut is peppered with dry blood.

"Does it hurt?"

"Less than my headache," Solas says, pressing his fingers into his temple. He looks weary.

She smiles. "Good. Perhaps that's what you deserve."

"I deserve more," he says with a seriousness that jars her. She had not meant for him to take it to heart.

"We were all young once."

"It might sound stupid, but I should probably know better by now."

"Yes and no. You're not yourself—yet."

"Yet." Solas scowls and eases onto his back.

"That's not what I meant—"

"It is," he interrupts, eyes flitting momentarily to her face before settling on the ceiling.

Rosa nestles into her pillow and says nothing because he is right. She had hoped sleep and alcohol would erase Solas' preoccupation with his memories, but his frown and thousand-yard stare suggest otherwise.

As they lie in silence, she mulls over how to broach the subject—or whether it is tactful to do so. She has no answers, no solutions; her desires for his memories tainted by self-interest as much as she might claim altruism. Her companions are no better judges. Blackwall thinks one way, Cole thinks another—and Solas…

"You never said where we are going," he murmurs, jolting Rosa from her thoughts. "You mentioned the Hinterlands, but nowhere specific."

"I'm not sure myself." It is the most truthful answer she can give. "I have a general idea of the area."

Solas returns to his previous position and studies her face, unfazed by the distance between them, the narrow bridge of air that separates his nose from hers. After a moment, his eyes soften. "If you think it's best."

"I hope it is."

"Then, we should go."

They stay like that for what feels like an age, until the morning sun smolders behind the thin curtain. Outside their room, there are footsteps. Rosa knows it's Cole by the rhythm of his gait.

Solas' ears twitch as he listens, eyes shifting to one side. The Inquisitor grins as his expression morphs into one of guilt. He is easier to read than before, with expressive brows that quiver and lips that quirk at the slightest emotion. She prefers that about him, his honesty. It makes her question how Solas might have been in his youth—if he had one.

"I best go make amends." Solas heaves himself onto his elbows but goes no further, and stares reluctantly at the sheets.

"Shall I clean the cut before you go?"

"No, best leave it. Thom and Cole might be quicker to forgive an injured man."

As he leaves to collect his things, Rosa averts her gaze, but can't ignore the surge of curiosity that grips her. She allows herself a glance—a peek at his narrow waist and broad shoulders, the elegant arch of his thighs as he slips into his trousers—

Stop, she thinks when she catches herself staring. Despite the prickle of shame that blossoms in her gut, she is driven by something more potent, an urge that swells in her heart with crushing familiarity. They are the feelings of a much younger girl for whom lust and longing came as easily as breathing.

Solas slips into his tunic and sighs. "About last night," he starts, fingers ironing out the wrinkles in his shirt, "I—"

"Your concerns are warranted, Solas," she says quickly, looking everywhere but his face. Rosa is surprised to find her cheeks are hot with color. "I am sorry I did such a poor job of consoling you. In any case, we don't need to discuss it. You were upset, and rightly so."

Her flush does not go unnoticed.

"That's not what I'm talking about." Solas smirks. Thankfully, he does not linger and marches to the door. As it swings shut, Rosa hears his words—a parting gift that cuts across the room like a crisp autumn breeze.

"I have not forgotten the kiss."


	30. Wind's Howling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long. Back at work! T_T

Rosa does not rush her morning routine to give Solas enough time to make amends.

He speaks to Cole first, their low voices humming indistinctly outside her room. The apology seems to be accepted almost instantly—as to be expected from a spirit of compassion. When Solas knocks on Blackwall's door, there is a greeting followed by silence as they retreat inside Thom's quarters.

Once her affairs are in order, Rosa sneaks across the hallway to Thom's room. Cole is already outside, staring hard at the russet wood of the warrior's door. He is dressed in dusty leather trousers and a frilly open shirt most definitely picked out by Mary. His flaxen hair is unkempt and sticks out in a jumble of loose curls.

"Eavesdropping?" Rosa says with fake disapproval.

Cole shakes his bed-head in a no. "Thom was loud. Now Solas is quiet." He looks over with glassy blue eyes rimmed with red. "Perhaps he killed him?"

Her hollow laugh is meant to be comforting, but hearing Cole voice her darkest thoughts throws her off-key. "I'm sure they're fine."

They wait for a time in silence, checking fingernails, their clothes, and hair to pass the minutes.

Suddenly, the door shudders open.

Thom appears first, one hand hidden behind the bale of hair that falls around his neck. His frown twists into a weary smile when he spots them. Behind him, Solas' forlorn expression bobs into view. His eyes are downcast, but there are no new marks or bruises. Lavellan can't suppress her sigh of relief.

"W'ot?" Thom says, shoulders jumping in a shrug. "You worried I'd beat the lad?"

"Never crossed my mind."

"So this morning congregation is just for fun, is it?"

"We should leave. We've wasted enough day," Cole interjects, one hand absentmindedly poised to pull his phantom hat down.

Solas notices and winces. "I'm sorry about your—" He gestures to his own head.

"It's fine. There are plenty of hats in Thedas. I'm sure I'll find another."

The party disperses into their respective rooms. Rosa folds the packets of smoked fish from Blackwall into her bag and leaves to pay the stable with Solas in tow. Cole takes what few possessions he carries and waits patiently by the entrance of the inn. Thom is the last to arrive, sauntering from the Gull and Lantern with a neatly trimmed beard, and a grubby sack thrown over one shoulder.

Thom prepares his horse in silence while Rosa relays the plan: they will take the southern road down through the Hinterlands as far as it will take them. When Cole asks for their destination, Rosa only shrugs and says, 'they'll know when she knows.'

Thom finally speaks up, grunting with the effort to secure his bags to his saddle. "You going to the Kokari Wilds?"

She hesitates before nodding.

"Dangerous place. You sure you're up to the challenge?"

When she looks over her horse, Blackwall's concern is no longer veiled, his pink lips stretched into a deep frown. His gaze pins her. It's easy to know what he wants, what he longs to hear: that they'll be safer if he comes along. Rosa will not ask that of him, though part of her longs for the company.

"We'll manage, Thom. I'll be back in Rainsfere before you know it."

It isn't much, but his shoulders relax a little. He gives a nod and hoists himself onto his horse.

They part ways at the mouth of Redcliffe beside the crossroads. Thom behaves like an old father, bellowing instructions for each of them on how to defend themselves from bandits, and monsters, and beasts. Rosa listens and adds rapt commentary when required. Solas and Cole are silent as statues. When Thom has run out of advice to give, of seeds of wisdom to bestow, he observes them with worry, sowing a private wish for invitation into the fabric of their prolonged silence. Rosa is forced to break it, kicking her horse into a slow trot down the southern road towards the Hinterlands with a soft farewell.

It's some time before Rosa dares look over her shoulder. Behind Cole and Solas, Blackwall and his ebony horse are where she left them, watching from afar.

* * *

_It's dark. Rosa wonders what time it is, but is soothed by the liberating notion that she doesn't really care at all. She adjusts her head on his shoulder and listens to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Fingers trace lazy patterns across his abdomen, following lines of muscles to the pointed peak of his hip bones._

_Rosa aches. Her insides feel twisted, raw, inflamed, exhausted. She delights in the sensation, the way her clit throbs as she hooks a leg over his, in the small bites around her breasts that chart a path towards her neck._

_"Your thoughts are very loud," Solas murmurs._

_Her fingers stop and retreat to his chest. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."_

_"There are worse ways to wake up." She can hear the smile in his voice. "Royal for your thoughts?"_

_Rosa bites her lip. "How did you learn how to do all this?"_

_"This?"_

_"Tel' enathe," she warns._

_Solas is quiet for a long moment, fingers idle on her arm. "I—"_

_"And please don't tell me this is some ancient wisdom you learned in the Fade."_

_He gives an uneasy chuckle. Whether from embarrassment or because Rosa foiled his plan, she cannot say. "No. I had a rather robust education. With a girl."_

_"Does the girl have a name?"_

_"Andruil."_

_She snorts. "Did you serve in her bed for a year and a day?"_

_"Longer, actually."_

_"Well, praise Andruil for her wise teachings," she giggles, pressing her lips against his ribs._

_"I can show you more if you'd like?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_Solas clarifies his words with a gesture, rolling over the Inquisitor with a hungry purr._

_Rosa cackles as he buries his face into her neck. "For my education, then."_

* * *

"You're smiling."

Rosa looks across the way. Solas is watching her intently from his saddle. Cole's arms hang on either side of Solas' waist and jiggle with each trot. His head is pressed into the elf's back. If Rosa listens hard enough, she can hear the boy's dry snore.

It's their fourth day of travel. The road has been unadventurous at best. There are no bandits, no traps, no apostates, or possessed Templars—even the bears keep to the trees. Aside from a smattering of rain and the promise of a thunderstorm that never comes, the weather has been pleasant, with crisp afternoon winds and mild fog in the early dawn.

Rosa turns her head to hide her reddening cheeks. She is not quick enough.

"Smiling and blushing? Now I'm doubly curious."

"Hush."

"Won't you tell me what you're daydreaming about?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with," she says, fighting the urge to smirk.

Solas clicks his tongue and urges the horse forward until it's alongside hers. He says nothing—doesn't need to—and delights in the awkwardness that pools between them, in the way Rosa grasps the reins of her mount a little tighter.

Travel aches and woes aside, the journey has been enjoyable. Solas is more himself, and Rosa, less guarded. While Cole dips in and out of consciousness, sleeping whenever he can, the elves make-do with each other's company. Solas quizzes her on the past ten years, on life after the Inquisition, and of the current social climate of those in Thedas. She is happy to oblige and rambles on about the growing acceptance of elves, the strong trades between Orlais and Ferelden, and the ever-changing reforms of a less mage-orientated Tevinter. In these moments, these happy exchanges, Rosa can't ignore how her heart flutters when he laughs, how her stomach tightens when he guides his horse close to hers. Breaking for lunch or to make camp is always a nervous affair that makes her realize how out of practice she is in love. Solas accompanies her everywhere, in all of her duties. When she hunts, he follows, when she bathes, he lurks, and when they turn in for the night, he rests his bedroll close to hers.

As they trot past a narrow ravine filled with smooth stones and ancient ruins that have long lost their shape and purpose, Rosa stops and listens. The voices are loud, almost deafening, rasping in unison in a tongue that is more bestial than human.

"Something the matter?" It's a question Solas asks often.

"We're close," she admits and scans the horizon. The mountains in the foreground are tall, dotted with bare and twisted trees and gnarled roots that scar the landscape with finger-like bark.

"I wish you'd tell me how you know."

Cole grunts and stirs. He peeks his head over Solas' shoulder and rubs the sleep from his eyes. "We're close," he murmurs, echoing Rosa. "I can feel something. Old, but young, in a body that doesn't quite fit. It burns."

"Cole?"

"Who is it?" he asks, flaxen hair curling in the soft breeze.

Rosa opens her mouth and closes it just as quickly. She taps her horse's side with a kick, creating some distance between her and the worried spirit at her back. "Let's keep heading. I think the weather might turn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tel’enathe - Don't start


	31. Where the Wild Things Go

It starts to drizzle in the early afternoon. By sunset, it's pouring. The rain is cold, fierce, and relentless, and blurs the foreground in a veil of mist and water. 

Huddled beneath a magical barrier, Rosa pants into her sternum. Her horse stops and fidgets nervously as its hooves sink into another patch of sodden earth. 

Behind her, Solas swerves to avoid a deep pool of muck. "Perhaps we should stop—the horses are getting agitated."

"There's nowhere to rest, Solas," she says.

Cole touches the surface of the barrier above him. He frowns. "It's getting thinner, Rosa." 

She nudges the horse onward, finally succeeding in getting the animal to gallop a short distance away, enough to outrun any further discussion. 

Rosa knows the barrier is thin, that they haven't got much time before the three of them are forced to trek through the Korcari Wilds in the bitter cold rain. She dips her chin onto her chest and brushes away the sweat that accumulates there. There's no mistaking what's coming. She feels it in her aching knees and shallow breaths. Everything is fuzzy, too light, and too heavy all at once. The magic will turn on her, as it always does. 

"I think we are getting closer," she yells, a lie she hopes will fuel her resolve as much as theirs. Staring into a clearing of sparse trees and small hills, Rosa can't silence her thoughts of doubt. The land is barren, devoid of anything: no birds, no animals, no shelter. What's more, the voices that had led her thus far are quiet and offer no guidance. 

"You're pale." Solas' voice is close. 

She turns too quickly. The grey landscape swirls into an incongruous mess of shades and colors. Above her, the barrier fades.

"Rosa? Rosa, are you well?" Solas' hand tightens around her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, the barrier—" 

"It's just rain, don't strain yourself," Cole says. 

Rosa nods. Water streams down her face, collecting in her hair, soaking through her clothes. What little warmth remains leaves her body. Her teeth chatter, her fingers shake, and suddenly, she is all too tired for this—too tired to find a solution, to weather the storm. 

Solas' voice shifts between distant and close, his words muffled by rain and thunder. There's a shuffle, a stamp of hooves—a patch of mud flung on her ankles—and heat. It takes Rosa a minute recognize the feel of someone behind her, of the strange shape of another's body at her back.

Solas slips the reins from her grasp. "She's freezing, Cole," he murmurs into her hair, jaw pressed against the side of her face. 

"I told her not to. The magic hurts. She pushed it for too long." 

"We need to get her somewhere dry." Solas' fingers brush her forehead. "Where now, Rosa? Tell us." 

They move forward aimlessly for an age. Rosa is too tired to answer but listens for voices that never come. In the distance, she sees a light, a glimmer of something that tastes like magic, that glitters faintly like dawn on a calm sea. 

"I see something—" 

Cole gallops ahead. 

_What do you see, Solas?_ Rosa strains to keep her eyes open. As a strange heat creeps up her legs and into her chest, she resigns herself to sleep. 

The sound of rainfall, she thinks, settling into Solas' chest, is quite soothing.

* * *

_Solas stands in a black, endless room full of mirrors that stretch for an eternity. He glances from one to the other and hesitates. They are black, lifeless—broken._

_Pale fingers reach out from behind his back to touch the tarnished inlays of gold etched into the frame. The mirror shifts, the plane of glass rippling into an image of a crystal tower hanging above a mountain with snowy peaks. A drone of voices burst forth, in a dialect of Elvhen not known to her. But she can sense their distress, their colored disdain._

_Rosa calls out to him. He doesn't hear her, and falls to his knees. He grasps his head, his ears, his neck. Solas weeps._

_The image in the mirror fades, but the voices remain._

* * *

Rosa sputters and reaches for her nose. The taste of ammonia burns the roof of her mouth. Her hand collides with something hard. There's a thud, a groan of displeasure, and the sound of something small rolling across an uneven floor. 

"Calm yourself, Inquisitor," comes a curt reprimand. Cold fingers catch her flailing wrist in a tight embrace. 

When she manages to open her eyes, she's blinded by the amber glow of candlelight. "Cole? Solas?"

There's a hiss. "So much fuss for so little reason. Your companions are here, safe and sound." The speaker clicks their fingers. "Spirit, your friend is awake. Comfort her, if you please." 

"I'm not a spirit," Cole says dejectedly. Rosa feels his warmth before she sees him. His touch is gentle. 

"I can't see." 

"Ridiculous." A rush of air courses over her face. The harsh light vanishes. " _This_ is the woman who bested an ancient Tevinter Magister? The years have not been kind to you, Inquisitor."

Rosa blinks up at a low ceiling. Withered herbs grey and shriveled with age hang from hooks embedded in warped joists. In front of her, the wall is made up entirely of books, their tattered spines creased from use. Cole sits on her right, on a high chair that squeaks each time he breathes. When he shifts forward, it moans like an old maid. 

"Are you well?"

"What a stupid question, Spirit. Of course she is." 

To her left is a familiar face untouched by time. 

With eyes like liquid gold, Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds, twists her lips into what could be called a smile. "You _are_ well, aren't you?"


	32. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, I'm getting to the parts I've been itching to write for ages.

The cottage is disappointingly ordinary. There are no animal skulls or cauldrons, no vials of blood, or deformed creatures packed into vinegar jars. Instead of ancient grimoires on the dark arts, tomes of history, art, and politics line the wall. The herbs that hang over the makeshift bedroll in the pantry are nothing exotic; only bunches of basil, garlic, thyme, rosemary, and elfroot. In the fireplace behind them, soup bubbles in a clay pot.

Cole and Solas sit on either side of the front door. Cole's unease is palpable, his hands drumming a discordant chord on his trousers. Solas is composed, quiet, but alert. 

Morrigan guides a cup across the circular table. Rosa holds it to her chest but does not drink.

"You seem disappointed, Inquisitor," Morrigan purrs as she settles into the chair opposite her. She nods at the cup before bringing one her lips. "It's not poisoned, I assure you." 

Rosa frowns and takes a tentative sniff of the brew. "I wasn't expecting you," she says after a moment, regarding the dark-haired woman suspiciously. 

Morrigan is as she remembered her: fair, with bewitching eyes and ebony locks packed high into a messy bun. The elegant Orlesian robes Rosa had become accustomed to her wearing are replaced by a simple, dark dress adorned with long sleeves emblazoned with silver details. 

The witch smiles and toys with the pendant around her neck. "What were you expecting?"

"I'm not sure."

"Tis not polite to lie to your host, Inquisitor," she says in a voice too sickly sweet to be genuine. "You were expecting mother, yes?" 

Rosa watches Solas for any hint of recognition. 

Morrigan chuckles. "Don't worry about him. He hasn't the faintest idea about _who_ I'm referring to." Solas bristles but says nothing, much to the sorceress' amusement. "Which is why you're here."

"I'm here because I was summoned. The voices—"

"Yes, yes, the Well of Sorrows," she interrupts, staring disinterestedly at her nails, thin lips sliding into an abrupt sneer. She doesn't show her disdain for long and rewards Rosa with another smile. "I resented that you kept the Well from me. For some time, in fact. I suppose it does not matter now. Wisdom came to me in a form I did not expect." 

"Morrigan, I am not here to dwell on the past," Rosa begins cautiously. "The voices summoned me here, and I know they are your mother's work. Where is she?"

Another smile. The trinket around Morrigan's neck swings as she rolls back to her feet. She places a hand on her chest, over the gentle curve of her breast. "Here. What's the expression? Those you love never really leave you? Granted, I never _did_ love her, but she is with me all the same."

Rosa suppresses a shudder, but can't ignore the sense of dread that bubbles in her gut. "What do you mean, Morrigan?"

"That as fate would have it, my part in this was far from over." She turns her head and regards Solas with something like pride. "I know what you seek, Inquisitor, and unless you wish to return from whence you came, I suggest you put aside your suspicions so I might help you."

* * *

"May I?" 

Solas slinks away from Morrigan's outstretched fingers, as much as the chair allows. His eyes flit to one side, questioning Rosa with a look. 

She nods her head. "It's alright, Solas."

He sighs and resigns himself to the witch's wandering hands. He grimaces when she pulls and pushes his skin, tugging his ears with such force Rosa worries they might tear off. 

"Fascinating," Morrigan says under her breath. She grasps the tip of his chin and turns his head left and right, up and down, ignoring his mumbled protests. "Remarkable that you chose _this_ appearance despite not having any recollection of your former life. And to manifest in corporeal form—how _unusual_. Where did you appear?" 

"Jader."

"When?"

"Pride's End." 

She scoffs. "How _curious_. Do you remember why?"

Solas lowers his gaze and fidgets with the frayed threads of his shirt. 

"Well?"

"I was… _drawn_ from the Fade."

"By what? Speak frankly. I feel like I'm conversing with an Orlesian politician. Tis unbecoming if you, Solas."

He fixes Rosa with a worried look. It's enough. 

Morrigan chuckles deep in her throat and pulls away. "I see... You think _she_ somehow did it? Or that some _connection_ you once shared was the cause of all this. How positively _revolting_. And yet, incomplete as you are, you never questioned the validity of your attachment? On these feeble convictions alone, you took form and burst from the Fade?" 

"I have some memories," Solas says defensively, chest puffing with ire. "I remembered Rosa."

" _Oh_?" Morrigan saunters around the table, circling the pair like a hungry shark. The hem of her dress rasps as she walks. "And what do you remember?" 

"I have no desire to share that with you." 

" _Huh_. As you wish. Rosa?"

The Inquisitor takes a sip of her cold tea and grunts a yes.

"How much have you told him?"

"I haven't _told_ him anything."

"How very shrewd of you. So, what _have_ you done these past few weeks?" 

Rosa gives a brief account of their travels to Skyhold, their shared dreams, and occasional collapses. Morrigan listens in silence, circling round and round with slow, silent steps. 

"—and the voices led me to you," she finishes, nourishing her dry throat with another sip of tea. 

"His memory is episodic. Interesting. Tis not what I expected." 

"What did you expect?" 

"All or nothing." She stops and thumbs her lower lip. "What you did was intelligent," Morrigan admits after a time. "Retracing your steps without revealing too much was a sensible choice." 

"I wonder about that."

"And what about his magic," she says expectantly, swiveling on her heels to face Rosa. "Did you have time to conduct a study into the basics?" 

The color drains from her face. "Why would I?" 

Morrigan's features twist in a dazzling display of emotion, her lips sagging from a toothy-grin into an uncertain smile, and finally, into a frown. "It's true then," she murmurs, "you _have_ lost your abilities."

"And how would you know anything about that?" she spits. 

"Because if you had even a shred of magical aptitude, you would sense that Solas is brimming with latent magical potential." 

Rosa is red and angry and somehow, irreconcilably embarrassed. As she directs her attention to the table, she feels their eyes on her, their pointless pity weighing on her shoulders like a soggy blanket. 

"I recognized your spiritual fatigue, but I had thought—"

"You thought incorrectly."

"Clearly," Morrigan says gently, narrowed eyes glinting with half-veiled disappointment. "I suppose the rumors are true then. About how you lost... your touch."

"I—"

"What rumors?" Solas interjects, surprising them both. He fixes Morrigan in a stare, ignoring how Rosa's eyes widen in fear, how Cole stammers in protest. 

The Witch of the Wilds folds her arms and smiles a triumphant smile, the smile of a cruel victor for whom winning is the only answer. "Tell me, Solas. How much do you remember about your death?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garas - come


	33. Mother of Vengeance

"My… death?" 

Solas considers the concept. Rosa can see him working his way through it as if for the first time. Perhaps it is. Despite mulling over the details of his demise for over ten years, she is suddenly afraid. When Solas looks to her for reassurance, for support, she cannot hold his gaze. 

"Well, well, this should make things _quite_ interesting." 

"Morrigan," Rosa pleads. 

"What?" The Witch blinks slowly, lips parting in surprise. "Solas should know. I am just shocked you didn't tell him yourself."

"We decided there was no point if he didn't remember."

Morrigan's expression is unkind. "Is that what you tell yourself? That it was for his benefit?" 

Rosa wants to dismiss her, to argue. Part of her, a small part, rages with indignation. As a whole, she realizes Morrigan is right—that she took solace in the fact he didn't remember, took shelter behind the notion that only Solas could unmask the truth. In her melancholy, Rosa happens upon another thought, one that briefly overtakes the issue of Solas' death. 

"You are very well-informed for someone who could not be found for love nor money when the fighting started ten years ago. Did Flemeth keep you abreast?"

"Deflecting? As you wish. I shall indulge you this one time." Morrigan fingers the deep grooves of the table and waits, filling the air with suspense. "Flemeth is dead and has been for some time now."

"Dead?" Cole squeaks. 

The prospect seems ludicrous—Flemeth, the original Witch of the Wilds; the Woman of Many Years; Asha'bellanar; a person who had lived for centuries and guided history with a steady hand. Nevertheless, Rosa does not suspect her daughter of lying—not about this. 

"How?"

Morrigan extends a digit towards Solas. The room quiets. 

"I didn't," Solas protests, hands raised as if to ward an incoming attack. "I—"

"But you did. I know. I saw." 

"This is getting ridiculous," Rosa whispers. "What proof do you have?"

Before Morrigan can answer, Solas leaves the table abruptly, backing away from his companions with wide eyes. 

"I haven't killed anyone," he repeats, "I don't even know who she is!"

"Why are you telling him this, Morrigan; he doesn't remember."

"Lower your hackles, Inquisitor, and do not despair—I don't intend to leave the boy in this mental purgatory. You came to retrieve his memories, yes? I will help you recover them."

"You can do that?" Cole and Rosa say in unison. 

Morrigan laughs and tosses the hair from her eyes. "You sound so surprised. Tis the reason why you sought me out, no?"

"I didn't. I thought—" 

"The voices guided you to me. You're here. Now, do you want my help or not?" 

Rosa looks to Solas for confirmation. Still shaken, he nods. 

"Are you sure you can fix this? Can you help him regain his memories?"

Morrigan answers her with a lopsided grin. She stands and gestures for Solas to reclaim his seat. "His memories are not lost, Inquisitor. They are there, waiting in plain sight."

She saunters to the kitchen and reaches for the herbs hung overhead. She shakes one, filling the room with the scent of lavender. "They are locked away inside his mind, waiting to be unraveled." 

Rosa thinks of her vision, of Solas standing in a room full of blank mirrors, and frowns. 

"And fortunately for you, I have the key." 

"What will you do?" Rosa asks, eyebrow cocked. 

"Tis simple, really. Not unlike what you've done with Solas. We will find the place in the Fade where his memories dwell—the ones that shaped his nature; the old sights and thoughts and feelings of a much younger elf." 

"If Solas can't remember them, how can you—"

"He doesn't have to. I remember Inquisitor. I do." 

When Rosa fixes her with a confused stare, Morrigan shakes her head and sighs. "I had always thought you were clever. For Fen'Harel to take an interest in you, I _knew_ you must be. You disappoint me, lethallan." She disappears into another room gated by a warped door hung on rusty hinges. There's shuffling, and the soft rasp of leather. The Witch returns soon after, cradling something to her chest. The elf's heart stops when she notices the familiar shape and color of bone—the wolf's mandible.

Rosa is on her feet before she can stop herself, stumbling towards Morrigan with fearful eyes. Bile wells in her gut and bobbles into her throat. Seeing someone hold that which is most precious to her—her only piece of the past—is too wretched to ignore. Yet, despite her fiery thoughts and visions of vengeance, Rosa moves no further than the table's edge. She stands, suspended in motion, arm mid-swing, foot arched behind her, ready to propel forward. Even her eyes are frozen, watching the sorceress gloating from the doorway. 

"My, my, I thought I sensed something special." She weighs the necklace in her hand and transfers it to the other. She studies it with a fond smile.

"It's so very familiar. Tis a feeling I shall never grow accustomed to—experiencing memories and emotions that were never mine to begin with."

The magic on Rosa lessens, just enough for her to blink her dry eyes and wriggle the tips of her toes. She has felt this magic before—only once before. 

Solas stands. He grasps Rosa's shoulder and tries to move her. She doesn't budge. "Let her go," he barks. 

Morrigan ignores him. "Have you calmed yourself, Inquisitor?" She—thankfully—takes Rosa's silence for acceptance. "Good." The spell ends as abruptly as it starts. 

Rosa falls uneasily on her extended leg with a thud. Her throat feels raw, her body winded—as if she had just endured a steep uphill climb. It takes her a moment to find her voice. "It's you," she says, wiping parched lips with the back of her hand. "You're Mythal." 


	34. The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken so long. I've had the first part sitting with me for ages, but work has picked up again and have been busy with that. I'll be replying to comments as soon as I can. Love you all!

"What do the voices tell you?" she says and smiles a knowing smile, a smile that reveals uniform teeth, the cherry curve of her tongue, the dark tunnel of her throat. It's as if she is inviting her in, daring Rosa to take a look inside the vessel of an elvhen god.

"I don't need to ask."

"How I do love watching one happen upon truth, though in your case, I suppose it's closer to stumbling," Morrigan says.

Rosa cannot help but be curious. Even at a time like this, on the cusp of learning about Solas, unlocking his past, discerning the truth from the lies he parried about like armor, she trembles with the need to know what Morrigan knows, to hear how the witch happened upon Mythal's soul. But now is not the place or the time.

The elf's eyes flit back to the wolf's jaw. "The necklace," Rosa begins demurely, "could I have it back?"

"Ah, yes, the necklace." Morrigan glances down at the object as if she had forgotten its existence. "The wolf's jaw. It was a gift, a token of their friendship, and a symbol of his place in the pantheon." She chuckles and is swept away by memory. "I—she had never thought he would leave a piece of himself here. She never knew how closely he watched."

"A piece?"

"Why, yes. A piece, just a fragment, is all it takes."

"I don't follow."

"I'm not sure how to be any clearer, Inquisitor." She rattles the necklace. "Solas' reappearance, the formula of his resurrection—is this."  
When Rosa and Solas exchange puzzled glances, and Cole shuffles noisily in his chair, Morrigan breathes a quiet _oh_ in understanding.

"Of course. You thought it was love that brought him back, didn't you?"

"We didn't know what to think, Morrigan," Rosa sneers.

"There is no need to get angry, Inquisitor. I am merely trying to help you piece together this great mystery."

"And how can you be sure?"

"Because mother, too, cheated death the same way, albeit more successfully, with both her magic and memories intact."

Solas adjusts his weight on the chair but says nothing. He is unnervingly quiet, with tired eyes that blink lifelessly at the wall opposite him. Rosa cannot begin to imagine the depth of his confusion, the frustration of seeing his reality torn apart by simple words. She reaches for his hand beneath the table and entwines her fingers with his.

"I don't expect you to take my word for it, however. Come—it's time you see I speak the truth."

"What? Now?"

"There is no better time than the present."

"We need to prepare—we need time to process this. Solas is—"

But Morrigan is not listening. "Sit."

Rosa remains glued to her chair.

"I warn you, Inquisitor," Morrigan whispers, "you may not like what you see along the way."

Rosa does not have time to ask her to elaborate. The witch caresses the air in a series of gestures, sending a gentle wave of magic across the room. With heavy eyes, Lavellan watches Solas' head nods onto his chin. Behind her, Cole calls her name again and again until all is quiet.

* * *

The three of them stand at the Crossroads. Rosa takes a gulp of air and completes a quick circle.

"Cole?" Her voice echoes, traveling for what seems like an eternity in every direction. The uneven pavement feels slippery beneath her leather soles, like moss coated with dew.

"He didn't come," Morrigan says, sounding equal parts surprised and impressed.

"I've seen this place before," Solas murmurs. He takes a step towards a nearby mirror and places a hand on the silver frame. "Where are we?"

Morrigan sighs. "Your mind, or a reflection of it. Or perhaps it is mine—or Rosa's. Who can say?"

"This feels different. More complete."

"Because I'm here, lending my memories to yours, giving it weight, shape, and color."

"My dreams of this place have never been so clear," Solas adds.

Rosa flicks her hand back and forth, whisking the thick mist that hangs over the realm. It smells familiar, like oak porridge and charred meat, and thrums with inert energy. Across the undulating pavement, another eluvian catches her eye. It gleams, its surface shivering with tiny ripples. As she creeps towards it, there is a nervous giggle, the echo of footsteps, the crunch of leaves. A voice tells her to watch her step—her mother's voice.

A hand on her shoulder stops her from edging closer. "Now is not the time," Morrigan warns, fixing the mirror with a cautious glance.

Ringing, like the chime of clinked crystal glass, sounds from where Solas is standing. The elf pulls his hand away from the mirror. A light emanates from it.

"I hear something," he murmurs quietly. "A voice I—"

"Go to it, then," Morrigan encourages.

Solas does not seem to hear her but reaches for the mirror once more. His fingers pierce the surface, slipping through the mercurial plane. It consumes his hand, wrist and climbs up to his forearm, curling over his skin like liquid metal.

"Solas, wait!"

Solas doesn't acknowledge her. He enters the mirror.

"Where did he go?"

Morrigan chuckles and saunters towards the mirror. She slides a finger down the edge of the frame and smiles. "We shall have to see for ourselves. Are you ready, Inquisitor?"

The witch does not wait for an answer. Rosa, clutching her missing arm to her chest, follows.


	35. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Squees*

She blinks into the Fade, the real one, the one Rosa tries to forget. And yet, despite the familiarity of knowing this place, it is different. The jagged landscape of crumbling rocks is more organic, less affected by reality. There are less crumbling ruins, no faded statues, or alcoves filled with remnants of a forgotten past. The garish monuments that once lined the warped pavements and walls are nowhere to be seen.

When Rosa scans the heavens for the Black City, its spot is vacant. Empty. Instead, there is an uninterrupted sky where green mist fades into blue. Beyond it, no more than specs on the horizon, are the alabaster shapes and landmarks of a simple civilization buried within a sea of forest. 

"You've come again, Lethallan." 

Rosa swivels on her heels. Behind her, a spirit settles beneath the branches of an old tree. It is white and glows like the full moon on a cloudless day. As it extends what could be called an arm, the outline of its body shimmers. 

"I—"

" _I have_." 

A figure glides up beside her with silent steps. Tall, hooded, with a ruby cowl that hangs like a shroud over its face, it stops beside Rosa and offers a deep sigh. 

"Have you come to talk?" the spirit asks. 

The visitor pushes back its hood, revealing the dark hair and pointed ears of a middle-aged elf. She smooths the sides of her modest gown and fixes the spirit with a worried look. "I have come to ask." 

The spirit offers something like a scoff. The space around it frizzles in annoyance. 

"My answer is the same, Lethallan." It turns to leave. 

"I have seen you watching," the she-elf says, the corners of her lips rising into a smirk. "I know you've considered my offer."

"I observe, Lethallan. It is what I do. It is my nature." 

"Yes. Wisdom is curious, about the world, the Fade, its people. But you are hindering yourself—there is only so much one can learn behind the looking glass."

The spirit sways but does not leave. "You have spun this narrative before," it says quietly, with less confidence than before. 

The elf reaches out towards him, as if to beckon him close. "I need you, old friend. I need your counsel, your wisdom. I need an ally I can trust." 

"I am here for you, Lethallan. You are always welcome in the Fade." 

They regard one another in silence. The woman nods her head. "I see." 

"I am sorry, Justice," the spirit murmurs. "I do not think I can be of any help."

"Then we are lost, Wisdom." The figure named Justice offers it a weary smile. "Without you—only you—my people are surely lost." 

The whites of the spirit flicker into amber for a moment, the edges of his arms, head, and chest glowing with color. What might have been its heart pulses and then vanishes. 

"Will you come again to talk?" it asks.

Laughter tumbles from the elf's lips. "I will come again to _ask_ , Wisdom." 

The spirit lingers for a moment before returning to its descent down an unmarked path. When Rosa looks round, the elf at her side is gone. 

* * *

Rosa follows the spirit for what feels like an age, stalking it through the barren landscape. Though she is lost and has no inkling where her companions might be, she is not afraid. Something about the creatures' presence consoles her. 

As it floats, it murmurs to itself and stops to stare at the sky above at frequent intervals. Occasionally, its white body flickers amber, a change that appears to reflect its darkened mood. 

The path forks left and right; up and down. At the top of the steep slope, Morrigan lumbers into view, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Rosa calls out to her. 

"There you are," she sighs and urges her to hurry with a gesture. When she reaches the summit, another eluvian flickers ominously behind her, partially shielded by the hedge of a stone wall. To her surprise, Morrigan is alone. 

"Where's Solas?"

"He's not with you?" The witch's brows arch in surprise and fall just as quickly. "I suppose he's deeper still." Cold fingers reach out to grasp her arm and pull her towards the mirror. 

"Wait!" Rosa flails and looks over the landing towards the lower pathway, searching for her short-lived companion. 

"We don't have time," Morrigan snaps but relinquishes her hold on the elf. She enters the mirror first. Reluctantly, Rosa follows. 

* * *

A man and woman stand in small study bereft of valuables. The ceilings are low, its wooden walls composed of thick planks of varying sizes strung together with ropes and plaster and the feeble prayer that it holds. 

The woman takes the man's hand in hers and kneels. "Join me," she whispers and brings the tips of his fingers to her mouth and grazes them with her lips. Her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders, concealing her face from view. 

The man smiles at her obedience and drinks in the sight of her bowed head and curved spine with black eyes rimmed with kohl. The bronze circlet on his head shimmers in the dim light. 

"Join you?" he murmurs, in a resonant voice born deep within his belly. 

"Unite our people. Together we can build something that will last and prosper, for as long as there are stars."

He slips his hand from her gently and adjusts the fur throw across his shoulders. "Why me? You have others in your service already." 

When she does not respond, he chuckles and squats before her. "I've heard from my people that you've been to other tribes. You've enlisted the help of that she-elf to the North, and those mind-addled brothers on the coast." He wets his lips and slips a hand beneath the woman's chin, ushering her face upwards. 

Rosa recognizes her as the elf she had seen in the Fade. 

"Again, I ask: why me?" 

Justice is quiet. Violet eyes scan his face, following the jungle of auburn hair that curls like a lion's mane around his cheeks and jaw. "We need your warriors. Your power. There are others like us, others who braved existence to realize our purpose here beyond the sky. They are allies for now, but I know their hearts, their thirst to rule. When the time comes, there will be war, and I want to ensure my people are on the winning side."

He scoffs and hangs his hands over his bent knees. "These _others_ you speak of, I know of them, too. They are rabble with arid lands and fickle followers. Their magic is weak. Their power ebbs."

"For now, Valor. For now." She cocks her head to one side. "Will you consider my offer?" 

Valor cups her face and traces the curve of her mouth with a heavy thumb. "Elgar'nan," he says softly. "That is my name. I have not been called Valor for many years."

The woman smiles and leans into his touch. "Elgar'nan."

The memory fades like ink diluted with water, and succumbs to indistinction. Behind them, the mirror hums in a warning. Rosa looks round to see that the glass has begun to lose its luster. 

"Morrigan, we have to go, we have to find Solas."

Rosa reaches for her and stops. Morrigan continues to stare at the couple, eyes fixed on the hand that curls around the woman's neck, urging her closer. Her fingers tighten around her pendant. They are trembling. 


	36. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for all the positive comments and reviews and kudos. I am fit enough to fight two arch-demons with all this love! I adore writing all this potential 'old spirit-made-flesh' stuff, but damn it's hard! I want DA4 so bad to find out more about what really happened. There's just so much uncertainty. Was Solas actually part of the pantheon? What was his name before, if he had one? Is he actually Dirthamen? Where are the hecking Evanuris now? BLEGH, PLS BIOWARE, the cliffhanger has gone on long enough! If you guys ever have any questions, or want to bounce theories, or argue why mine are crap, I am always here for a discussion! :)

The entrance to a small temple towers over them. Built into a mountainside, it hides partially concealed beneath the shade of a surrounding forest. A pebbled pathway covered in leaves leads to what appears to be crypt; its dark walls illuminated by blue flames. An old elf with a limp hobbles across the landing, a wooden broom clasped tightly in his hands. He pauses by a silver bowl filled with figurines, brittle wreaths, and oddly shaped coins before returning to his sweeping. 

Solas is not here either, but Rosa is too engrossed by this place to worry. The world feels old. Unfinished. Untouched. It's lacking in places, complete in others, like the lines of a painting yet to be filled in. The air around the forest is dense, laden with magic that might ignite with the smallest spark. It is a world of potential, a world where creation could be realized with a thought. Above them, above the peppering of thin clouds, the green Fade blends into a blue sky. 

"Are these Solas' memories?" Rosa asks, more to herself than anything. She doesn't expect a response from Morrigan, who broods and pouts in a silence that is loud and impossible to ignore, like a thundercloud brewing over a calm sea. Nevertheless, she surprises her with an answer. 

"No," she murmurs, "these are hers—Mythal's." She walks to the mouth of the temple and touches the faded runes engraved in the stone. "This is her place. A place of worship. Where her people came to ask her boon, to beg her favor."

"It's—" Rosa bites back her words. 

"Tis all right, Inquisitor. You do not have to mince words with me. It is only natural to compare this to the one we found in the Arbor Wilds."

"It's quite modest," Rosa finishes with a blush.

"We all must start somewhere, Inquisitor. Even Gods," Morrigan says. "This was a time before the pantheon, before the foundations of any great Elvhen cities were carved into the ground. Magic, reputation, power—these must all be nurtured. Mythal was not born into a flourishing kingdom. This is a time before the wars—before the legends. Before Elgar'nan became the sun and Mythal the mother of Vengeance. They were nothing once. Beings with a purpose that outgrew the bonds of their existence." 

"How can that be true? You—Mythal, Elgar'nan—were the first of our kind," Rosa ventures, trying to mesh the fragments of her Dalish history with Morrigan's admissions. "How can you say that they were nothing when they were _everything_."

The witch frowns. "Tell me, Inquisitor, what do you know of spirits?" 

She takes a moment to think. Solas' stories come to mind. Morrigan does not wait for an answer. 

"The Chantry would have humans believe that the spirits of the Fade are the first children of the Maker. They were made incomplete, without a soul, and without the power to imagine and create. And so, were discarded and left to wander the Fade while He created another world with new children that closer resembled His image." 

"These are the rambling of a Chantry priest, Morrigan," Rosa notes with no shortage of skepticism. 

She chuckles. "Quite right. Despite what religion and legend state, t'was not spirits that came first, but _people._ "

"People?" 

"Is it so hard to believe?" Morrigan turns to address her. "You've been to the Fade, have you not? Met spirits and demons in more forms than most. Spirits of Wisdom, Justice. Demons of Pride. What are they but reflections of human virtue and vice? Spirits are echoes, Inquisitor. The dreams of a man longing for knowledge, the cries of a beaten woman who yearns for revenge. They are only concepts. Concepts with the power to take form, but the corruptible constitution to be affected by human perception." 

"I—I don't know enough to say," Rosa admits.

"You don't," Morrigan agrees. "Not that it matters." 

"But, if what you say is true, the Evanuris…" 

Morrigan gives a hoot of laughter that reminds her of Flemeth. "Ah! Their most guarded secret! A lie that runs so deep the very fabric of elven history would crumble if it were ever unearthed..." 

She strolls towards the elf hobbling across the landing and leans over his shoulder. "They are not Gods or the first of your people. They were not _even_ people to begin with," Morrigan says giddily, with the expression and mannerisms of a mischievous imp. "The pantheon of the greatest civilization that ever existed… is ruled by nothing more than a band of liars and impostor; spirits masquerading as Gods." 

The elf ambles on, deaf to her whispers. He scratches his neck and returns to sweeping. Morrigan watches him. Her expression softens, the harsh line of her mouth sloping into a frown that erases all remnants of joy from her face. 

"It was not meant to be this way. Mythal did not want to become a God. She wanted to rule, yes, to serve her people— _yes—_ but not like this. Never like this. One's purpose is too easily twisted in this realm. Funny that the hearts of spirits are not unlike those of men."

From the narrow chest of the old elf, a green wisp billows from beneath his tattered clothes. It floats towards Morrigan, encircles her, once, twice, before disappearing inside the crypt. Morrigan follows it and hums a familiar tune under her breath. 

_"Though love I was, your passion's changing fire has forged this spirit into cruel Desire."_

* * *

Morrigan guides them inside the crypt and down the steep steps that descend into the heart of the earth. The glow of the wisp sheds enough light to mark their way. They reach even ground after a minute of walking, slipping into a long corridor. 

"Where does this lead?" Rosa asks. 

"We shall have to find out, won't we?" 

The wisp bobbles into motion, luring them further in. 

Rosa rubs the nub of her arm and shudders. Ancient magic has seeped into the rocks and stone. She can taste its existence, unique color, and texture more clearly than she has done in years. With an aching heart, Rosa realizes she cannot remember the last time the scent and feel of magic enveloped her so entirely. 

"Did your mages construct this place?" 

"Mages?" Morrigan replies, teasing the word as if its meaning was unknown to her. 

"This place is filled with magic. It's as if the very stones are saturated with it." Rosa knows a magical construct when she feels one. This is not chaotic energy. It has been channeled, processed from thought into form. This aura smacks of spells and ritual, of a motivation to shape and create. 

"What are mages?" 

Rosa groans and rolls her eyes. Morrigan is more like Solas than she realized. 

"Those with magical potential, those with the ability to harness the Fade," she murmurs, giving the best textbook definition she can think of. 

"Correct. More than that, it is a label, a means to distinguish magic users from non-magic users. In the past, there was no need for such names. Magic was not a gift bestowed on the few. Before the veil, ancient elves took to it as easily as breathing—with proper guidance, of course." 

"Solas said the Evanuris were mages," she argues, feet skidding against the floor. The ground starts to slope. 

"A kindness to further your understanding. The Evanuris were the most powerful users with an unprecedented connection to the Fade, but they were not unique in their abilities. With the right instruction, those who followed them were able to craft great wonders and mold the world to their liking." 

"Is that what the Evanuris did? _Teach_ their people?" Rosa growls, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

"I see the trap you wish to set, Inquisitor. The Evanuris did unspeakable things, but that is only a small part of their long history. Elgar'nan did not always burn the eyes of those brave enough to look upon his visage. Falon'Din did not always wage wars for adulation. Before the pantheon, before the Evanuris grew fat with praise and worship, they led their people to greatness."

"In what way?" 

"In the past, Elgar'nan taught his people to fight, to mold metal and fashion armor that could ward off any attack. Andruil built a haven for women who had lost their homes and families. She taught them to hunt, to craft, to defend themselves. She gave them the tools to live in a world without men."

"And Mythal?" 

Morrigan stops. "Mythal loved her people," she says softly. "She cared for them. When the winters were hard, she grew great gardens to feed them. When pestilence ravaged their lands, she showed them which herbs to use to dampen fever and taught them spells to heal fatal hurts. She—" Her voice fades into an echo. "Solas has been here."

" _Here_? How do you know?"

"I simply do. Come, we might catch him yet." 

The corridor narrows until it is barely wide enough to squeeze through. Morrigan hunches her shoulders and flattens her dress over her hips and eases herself through the channel. The path soon tapers into a small cave. A mirror, as tall as a young child, shimmers green from the glow of the wisp. 


	37. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO HAPPY YA'LL AS KEEN ON THE EVANURIS AS ME! What a relief, we're all mad here, haha. I've already written the next chapter... it's quite long and muddled and confusion, but I'm quite fond of it. I can't wait to share it with you all. Waiting for this meeting to finish so I can start replying to all the wonderful feedback :)

They return to the front of the temple. Upon closer inspection, Rosa realizes it is the same temple, but not during the same time. 

The entrance is as it was, with its elegant entablature and faded runes and chipped columns, but the structure behind it is different. Bigger, grander, the dark crypt has grown, its cella expanded into a vast hall large enough to accommodate rows of stone pews. Where there was once darkness, light streams from tall painted windows carved into the walls. At the back of the temple, old offerings are piled high in a bowl beneath a statue of Mythal. 

Morrigan walks into the building with Rosa in-tow. At the foot of the statue is a man. Sprawled on his belly, face planted on the floor, his chest rises with shallow breaths. He mutters to himself, wheezing prayers, wishes, hopes, into the stone. 

"Pay attention, Inquisitor," Morrigan says as she lowers herself onto a pew. "I believe this memory will answer some of your questions."

The temple-goer lifts his head. "Mythal, enansal lanalin. Hartha ma'nuven. Ladana ma'danem dun." Across his face, the mark of a vallaslin carves his forehead with delicate lines. 

Rosa feels her heart thud in recognition, surprise, and confusion. _She sees him._ Beneath the grey sheet of soot that coats his skin, the sunken eyes, the dry, broken lips; beneath the vallaslin that curls around the contours of his face like an old tree; beneath the stench and weight of despair that oozes from every pore, she sees _him_. Solas, a shadow of his former self, stares at the statue of Mythal with hopeless eyes. The effort to speak takes its toll. He coughs and splutters—ropes of red drip down his chin. 

"Help him," Rosa says quietly. "Help him, Morrigan, please."

"You cannot change the past, Inquisitor," she replies. "And besides, there are some wounds you cannot heal. _You_ of all people should know that."

"But this is before the Veil. Elves are eternal—this shouldn't happen."

"You are right, it shouldn't. Not all elves are equal, Inquisitor. It is true in our time, as it was true thousands of years ago. For _lesser_ elves, for those of lower castes, immortality is not always and forever. For this one, his short life may have been a blessing."

A sudden breeze throws a spiral of leaves down the room. They swirl around Rosa's feet, filling the cella with a crisp crackle. A tall shadow appears at the entrance. 

Mythal hesitates by the door, studying the elf where he lies. Eventually, she drifts towards him and crouches by his side. 

"Is he dead," a voice asks.

Mythal sighs, her pointed diadem glinting as she shakes her head. "No, not yet, but nearly." 

"Can you help him?"

"No, I cannot."

The leaves swirl, rise, and fall once more. 

"Why has he come here? Where is his family? His people's healers?"

"These are questions I do not have answers for, Wisdom." Mythal rises to her feet. "You can come out. It is safe. Few come here anymore, not since my people began to settle in cities."

The space beside her sizzles and shimmers like a mirage on a hot day. The spirit's hazy outline is soft at first.

"He looks young," the spirit notes curiously. 

"He _is_ young, Wisdom," Mythal corrects. "Too young for such an end."

"Why is this allowed to happen?"

"Because life is harsh and cruel, and I cannot save our people from themselves, from their prejudice and hate."

"He wears your mark."

"He does." 

The spirit's light flares and dims, like candlelight caught in a strong breeze. "He is gone."

"Yes, Wisdom. He is."

The spirit makes a sound like a sob, but when he speaks, his voice is flat, emotionless. "It makes me… sad. 

"Death is sad, Wisdom."

"No, not death. His pain—I can feel it. He reeks of it, of regret, of unfulfillment. There is so much he wanted to do—to learn. I don't understand." 

"You have a kinship with him," Mythal explains. "His _purpose_ mirrors your own." 

"Kinship," Wisdom repeats, testing the word for itself. 

"It's a powerful emotion to feel a connection to this world and its people." Mythal takes one last look at the body before leaving. "Come. Let us return to the Fade. There is nothing more we can do here."

Wisdom does not follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mythal, enansal lanalin. Hartha ma'nuven. Ladana ma'danem dun - Mythal, Goddess of Justice, Blessed Mother. Heal this broken body.


	38. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so fucking happy I could piss myself! I can't even hide how happy I am BECAUSE BIOWARE HAS RELEASED SOMETHING AFTER 6 YEARS OF SWEET, SWEET SILENCE. PRAISE THE MAKER AND THE CREATORS AND THE FORGOTTEN, AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN!

_Rosa thinks she's awake but knows she's sleeping. In this limbo, in this nexus between worlds, she touches thoughts—memories?—that aren't her own._

He doesn't remember his name, but he remembers home. It is a small town to the north, one that enjoys copper leaves in spring and heavy snows in summer. In autumn, the air is rich with the scent of lavender. 

They keep to themselves, his people, simple folk with simple needs united by bonds of friendship, trust, and respect. There are no leaders there, no hierarchy or castes: only families, beloved elders, and the quiet spirits who descend from the sky to share stories with those who will listen.

He loves his home. He loves the alabaster rocks that pepper the forest; the painted birds that fill the sky with their tweets every morning; the warm rains that lull him to sleep every night. He loves the spirits that visit him in his dreams—who teach him things both new and forgotten. He loves a girl with hair like copper leaves in spring. 

He remembers the day they came—the outsiders. He remembers their marked faces and heavy armor, the crunch of flowers beneath their feet as they march into his village. They tell them what his people already know: there are great lands ruled by great beings that offer protection for fealty. They warn that there is evil at work, other lands and other beings that will engulf the world like a hungry wolf, and all free elves with it. These warriors offer protection at the cost of servitude. But these are simple people with gentle hearts, and the elders do not accept their aid. After all, they have no knowledge of war, no sense for danger, no taste for fear. They do not understand this offer is anything but. 

The outsiders return the next day with flaming swords and metal cages meshed with bars that crackle like rods of lightning. There is no battle. How could there be? Simple people with gentle hearts and spells for broken bones cannot fight. There is no battle, but there is loss. Those they do not kill are herded and chained and piled like fur coats into too-tight containers. Elves in white robes and necks heavy with gold burn the bodies and sing sweet psalms to beings not yet known to him. The spirits leave this place, this sanctuary of simple people with simple ways and gentle hearts, never to return. 

They take weeks to reach their destination. The conquered swear and cry and bleed and piss themselves in their cages, their voices silenced by soldiers with angry scowls and pitiless eyes. Screaming children and sobbing women are ignored, their empty bellies and putrefying wounds overlooked. But when the ground flattens into a cobbled path and trees morphs into high walls, these simple people are shooed out of their cages, bathed in cold water, stripped of their clothes, and branded with ink across their brows. It is the last time he sees her, the girl with copper hair: on her knees, bound and bruised and crying as they carve her pretty face with the sigil of her new master. He reserves a place in his heart for the memory: the smell of her burnt flesh, the pitch of her sobs—these are etched into his soul, ingrained in his memory. 

He is given to a man—a priest—and taken to a large structure surrounded by flowers and lush trees. The priest bellows orders he cannot understand. Their language is different. In a way, it is prettier than his mother-tongue, but there are no pretty words for him. They shake his manacles and lead him like a mule to his pen. There are others like him here—foreigners from distant lands bound in chains. 

He learns quickly. The whip at his back makes sure of that. In this place, they pray to a marble bust of a being carved with giant wings and a pointed crown. They call her Mythal. The priest teaches them simple words to repeat before her; a mantra all prisoners sing until their throats are raw and swollen. Day after day, he sings and bows and cowers at her feet. It is months before he learns the meaning of the prayer, longer still before he can piece together sounds and syllables to form words of his own. 

Time passes; slowly, quickly. The sun sets and rises. There is prayer, tears, anguish, despair, acceptance. He begins to forget the forest, the sound of laughter, the drone of unseen creatures scampering in the undergrowth. He forgets the color of her smile. The ritual chips away at his soul, a sliver here, a piece there. He feels it in his aching bones, sees it in his sunken cheeks, in the cough that racks his body with pain. Every day he is less of himself. Every day he exists less and less. 

In the end, he forgets his name. They call him girem'len, _slave_ , like all the rest of them. It's the last thing he hears after collapsing on the cold floor, an accompaniment to the boot that slams against his rib cage. He has seen this before a thousand times. Slaves do not live long in this gilded city of tall spires and floating castles. The ritual demands a very part of themselves, their essence, thoughts, and feelings—the things that make him, him. He knew this day would come eventually. It does to all girem'lem. 

They take him somewhere—he does not know where—but he thinks he is outside the city's walls. He wakes in a forest of sparse trees framed by speckled mountains. There are others here, at least, there were. White bones bleached by the sun protrude from thorny bushes and wild grass. They remind him of alabaster stones and her laugh— _whose laugh?_ —and a past he has almost forgotten. He crawls before he walks, using branches, twigs, dirt, and vines for purchase. A fleeting sense of relief, of freedom, slips from his heart before it can find a foothold. There is no hope even now. The coming dark will claim what's left of him if the wolves and bears do not see him first. 

There is a temple, like the one he lived in, but older. Forgotten. There are no priests here, no guards, or painted walls. Like him, it is abandoned, left to erode and wither out of sight and out of mind. He makes his way inside and sees her likeness—a terrifying creature with wings and pointed crown. There are offerings here, rotten books, bouquets, coins, clothes, and effigies piled onto a silver platter. Part of him wants to leave, to die away from this forsaken place and its maleficent gods, but the wind is cold, and the walls are welcoming. He crawls to her. The bowl at Mythal's feet has no food or water, nothing to fill the void that eats away at his core. As he looks up at her emotionless face, he is not afraid or sad. Something like anger boils in the pit of his gut and thrums through his veins. He tries to remember who he is, but cannot. He is denied that simple pleasure, the knowledge of who he is. But he remembers his hopes, the dreams of a much younger elf who wished to learn the names of spirits and tame the magic still ripe in this world. He shouts a prayer—the last request of a dying man trapped within an aging temple. 

_The feeling swirls and fades. In the back of her mind, Rosa senses a change. The memory shifts slightly, a drop of white in a black sea that transforms into something more. Two becomes one, thought and feeling merge into a mind that is the same, but fundamentally different in a way she cannot fully comprehend._

_There's no time to dwell._

_Rosa sees a light—it calls to her._


	39. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! This chapter will probably be my last for a while. I think the upcoming one will take some time and will be quite lengthy, and since it will follow a few instances (to save us sifting thru thousands of years of history), I'll try and take my time with it so it doesn't turn into one huge rambling mess of words. Hopefully, I will have an exciting update coming in the meantime, which I shall post here as soon as its done. :D So excited to get to share this lil' bit of goodness with you all <3

They arrive at an auditorium with gilded walls fixed to a high ceiling colored with murals. The scent of burning incense hangs in the air. Rosa stares in wonder, turning on the balls of her feet to marvel at the decor, the marble flooring and grand statues embedded in the alcoves. Crystal lights hover above them, joined by blue wisps floating lazily from one corner of the room to the other. The Inquisitor sniffs the air. It smells of oatmeal and charred meat. 

"This is not Thedas," she says. 

"A good eye—or nose, in your case. However, it is not the Fade either, but in between."

"Like the Crossroads?" 

Morrigan nods. 

"And… you know this place?" Rosa ventures. They begin to walk. Morrigan leads the way. 

"This is home. One of them, at least."

"The Evanuris did not live with their people?"

"They did. They lived in villages and cities, in castles high in the mountains. The greater their power grew, the further they strayed from those that helped them wield it. It's ironic, really. They had all longed to be among 'mortals' once. But as their people's love for them expanded, the Evanuris began to desire the quiet of the Fade, the security of their old home. It also made ruling easier. Being able to draw directly from the Fade helped them grow strong."

Morrigan stops and considers her options. There are great doors to her left and right, front and back. She hums in disappointment and waits for memory to guide her steps. 

"All kings and empresses live apart from their subjects," Rosa says to console herself. "Why should Gods be any different?" 

"Ah—" Morrigan smiles and gestures to the door to her right. "Pardon? _Gods_? No, they were not Gods, not yet. We were not even kings or queens."

Rosa pictures the slave's face, the chipped columns of Mythal's temple. "They worshiped Mythal. They erected temples in her name, sacrificed slaves for her favor. How—"

"Patience, Inquisitor. You wish to run before you can walk. There is still much to see. In time, you will understand."

They take another right, a left, and pass through rooms filled with trinkets, sculptures, paintings, gems, and treasures. This "home" Morrigan speaks of is more vault than dwelling. Finally, they enter what Rosa can only liken to a dining hall—a vast dining hall. On an elevated platform in the center of the room is a table long enough to serve 30 people. However, there are only seven chairs—two of which are occupied. 

"Ar tel din aron min, Mythal." A brutish man with auburn hair and bronze skin rims his chalice with a finger. Rosa realizes, with some surprise, it's Elgar'nan. Rosa cannot fathom how much time has passed between one memory and the next, and yet, it puzzles her to how much he has changed. His lithe form has filled out, the handsome hollows of his cheeks full and plump like a babe. The lines around his mouth suggest a fondness for frowning. 

Hidden behind a chair, Mythal places a hand on the table. "Husband, please allow me this," she responds placatingly. "I have worked hard to bring him into the fold."

"We have no need for more lords. We need more followers. More land. Spirits of Wisdom do not win wars." He clears his throat and plays with his embellished cup, pushing it this way and that. "Besides, we already have that cur, Dirthamen. Our people have enough _thinkers_ as is."

"You've just highlighted the problem, vhenan. Dirthamen is many things, but he is no ambassador."

Elgar'nan scoffs. "The old fool is more at ease in his study with his books and ink pots than with his own kind."

"So, you agree? We _require_ assistance."

He groans. "Your desire for diplomacy is admirable, but flawed." He waves a hand over the goblet. It fills with a perfumed liquid Rosa can taste from across the room. "Anaris has never been one to bandy words with an enemy—I doubt that will change any time soon." 

Mythal takes the goblet from his grasp and steals a sip. The drink colors her lips a fine ruby red. "You sound like you admire him. After all this time—"

"He's a man of action," Elgar'nan interrupts, eyes narrowed in warning. "He values power, he and that wretched underling of his, Geldauran. I can not fault him for coveting our strength and influence."

"They are like us. Perhaps, if fate willed it, we would be in their position instead of ours."

"Is that why you continue this charade of peace talks? Some buried guilt and empathy?" He chuckles and polishes the remains of his drink with an appreciative sigh. "What a kind heart you have. It makes you weak."

Mythal's posture changes. Rosa watches as she stiffens in her chair, her hand curling into a fist beneath the table. She fights to keep her tone level. "Unnecessary wars hinder progress, Elgar'nan. Even you can understand that." 

"Unnecessary? Un-necess-ary." He silently considers her words, mulling over his empty cup as if deciding whether to have another glass. "I know you don't believe that, Mythal. You've always been willing to dirty your hands for your followers. A curse here, a hex there."

"When appropriate. War for the sake of it is tasteless."

"Was it not you who united us _because_ of war? Because you knew, eventually, a fight was inevitable?"

"Yes," she concedes. "A battle _is_ inevitable, but if we can prolong the inevitable—perhaps, change their—"

"There is no stopping this, Mythal," he says sharply. "Our enemies will not stop. Hesitation will not stay their hand; stop their armies from growing, their power from amplifying." He sighs and reclines into his chair. Two fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Mythal studies him carefully. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there? You're frightened." 

He does not want to talk about it—that much is obvious—but Mythal holds him hostage at a glance. 

"There have been… _reports_ from the Tirashan Forest." 

"Their stronghold?"

"Their people have been displaying _unusual_ abilities. Abilities not of this earth, not of the Fade." 

Fear blankets the room. Mythal blinks and waits with bated breath, hand hooked on the pendant around her neck. "Could it be?"

"Perhaps," he says gruffly. "It's too early to tell. The only promising news is that whatever _power_ they've manifested is uncontrollable—at least for now."

Mythal sees an opening for a new angle. She seizes it. 

"Then what we need is time. Talks, negotiation—these things can facilitate that." 

Another scoff bursts from his lips. "There's no winning with you, is there? Very well. Where is he then?" When Mythal fails to answer, he shakes his head. "If my years with you have taught me one thing, wife, is that you prefer to ask forgiveness than permission. If you are asking me about this now, then you've already gone ahead with your scheme. 

"I'll collect him. He's here, in your trophy room."

Mythal rises to her feet. Elgar'nan stops her with a gesture. "Before you do, know this: I will not elevate him to our seat. He will serve our purpose, not lead it." 

She nods in understanding. "He can serve under me."

"No. Give him to Dirthamen. Wisdom should be with his own people." 

Mythal looks ready to protest but swiftly realizes now is not the time for pointless arguments. She has pushed Elgar'nan to his limit, and a tyrant's patience is never assured. 

She returns a few minutes after. A man tails her. It is the boy from the temple, a man Rosa only knows as Solas. 

Elgar'nan lets out a bark of laughter and beckons them both forward. He studies them from the nook of his folded hands. 

"You're not what I expected," he says, eyeing the young elf up and down, taking in his slim build, braided hair, and pale vallaslin. "One of yours?" He turns to Mythal and pins her with a questioning look. Neither makes any attempt to answer. "Of all the forms you could choose to take. What is your name, boy?" 

The elf looks at Mythal hesitantly. She comforts him with a smile. 

"Girem'len," he whispers.

" _Slave_ ? That is what you _were_ , Wisdom." Elgar'nan releases another world-weary sigh and toys with a strand of hair. "What do _you_ call yourself?" 

Shuffling from foot to foot, the spirit who was once Wisdom, once Ggirem'len, considers his options. 

“Solas. My name—is Solas.” 

Elgar’nan beckons them to the table. They take seats on either side of him and speak in low voices. Rosa shudders; she feels someone’s gaze on her. 

By the doorway, where Mythal and her charge entered from, is Solas—her Solas. He is watching her intently with knitted brows and purses lips. His expression softens when their eyes meet. Rosa walks towards him. In a heartbeat, it morphs into a light jog. Morrigan calls her back, but she ignores the warning the witch bellows from across the room.

_“Don’t!”_

Rosa grabs his outstretched hand and is enveloped by him; his arms, scent, spirit, words, thoughts, and memories. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar tel din aron min, Mythal - I don't like this, Mythal


	40. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! Sorry to keep you waiting, but I come with some great news. The talented [Eva Soulu](https://www.artstation.com/soulu) has come through with a piece I commissioned for the story. It's for the opening chapter. I've uploaded it there for anyone who wants to see! :) For a direct link, please click [here](https://ibb.co/3hkmpQ0). I hope you love it as much as I do!
> 
> I've written this from Solas' perspective initially to enjoy a break from the constant third-person-ness of it all.

Dirthamen's castle lies far from the budding cities of Elvhenan, nestled in a valley of snow-tipped mountains where only a small village of disciples have opted to stay. Elgar'nan does not speak highly of Dirthamen or his lifestyle, but then again, Elgar'nan does not speak highly of anyone.

He is wary of our arrival. Mythal lures him from his cavernous home with gentle words, soft whispers, and no shortage of elderberry wine bribes. Dirthamen is small in stature. He conceals thin arms and legs under robes that are two sizes too big. His lined face is sunken, with jowls that shudder at the hint of a smile. Unlike Elgar'nan, his yellow eyes are kind, patient, and alert, drinking in the smallest gestures, the subtlest hints.

He doesn't want me here, that much is clear. Eventually, he relents. I am given comfortable boarding, light linen robes, and peculiar ointments to rub onto my skin to keep it from drying out in the cold mountain air. Mythal leaves once I am settled with the promise to visit when she can.

Dirthamen does not call on me for several days. I use this time to study his castle, its lands and walk among his people, who, much like Dirthamen, have little interest in sourcing my affairs and motivations. The elvhen here have soft hands and voices and scurry from house to temple with feet blue from cold. Their lives are more straightforward than those that occupy the lower lands; a life of prayer and contemplation marked by silence and the occasional static rumble of thunder clouds gathering nearby. What it lacks in substance it makes up for in view. The breach between the waking world and the sky is barely noticeable. I can fool myself that if I reach out, I might slip into the Fade, seize the threads of magic and energy, and be embraced by the familiar taste and shape of home. In a way, I am glad Elgar'nan chose this place for me.

I am summoned on a day the elvhen call Syl'vun'in. A Spirit of Learning shows me to a plain auditorium lined with large books and nondescript tables—it calls it a library. Dirthamen is there, but he is not alone. He speaks to a tall elf with golden eyes and thin lips that are predisposed to smirking. Despite their low voices, I can tell they are arguing, and Dirthamen is losing. They stop as we approach. The guest barely acknowledges me, but the mark across my forehead piques his interest—if only for a moment. After a brusque farewell, he gathers his possessions and leaves through a tall mirror emblazoned with ruby stones and delicate silver filigree. Whatever the mirror is, it is magical in nature and leads to a place not of this world, or the Fade.

It is some time before I see his face again, and longer yet before I learn his name.

Dirthamen, whatever his shortcomings, is not one to mull over personal issues. He is inquisitive at heart, with a sharp mind and bottomless thirst for knowledge—a fact made abundantly clear when he undresses with me deft fingers and examines my body as a butcher might meat ready for carving. Questions shoot from his small mouth like arrows from an archer's hand; quick, direct, and pointed. He asks about my existence before taking corporeal form, of my purpose and hopes and aspirations. He asks after the man I mirrored, tapping at my vallaslin with square fingertips. When I hesitate, Dirthamen answers for me, reciting the history of my "former" life as if it were his own.

He blushes at my surprise. "There are no secrets in my castle," he chuckles. "There are no secrets from Dirthamen."

Our exchange is brief. Dirthamen sends me away with a gentle nudge at my back and a bundle of my overalls cradled against my chest. Whatever the scholar divined in that instance seems to settle his concerns, for it is not long before I am summoned again.

We form a strange partnership; me, an unwanted charge, him, an unwilling teacher. Yet for all Dirthamen's complaints, I believe he enjoys the company; of sharing the secrets of his lonely life with someone new. In the end, I became a project—a plaything for Dirthamen to engage in discourse with; a child he could mold into his own design.

I shadow him for many weeks, ghosting his quiet steps through the castle, observing while he reads, inquiring as he scribes. Eventually, he tires of my incessant questions and puts me to work. I read books on magic during the day, on philosophy and elvhen culture at night. I learn of the other leaders, their tribes, and the dark forces in opposition to their rule.

When the mood strikes, he invites me to dine with him on roast pheasant and elderberry wine and quizzes me on my understanding of the world and its occupants. Any personal inquiries, I learn, are best answered truthfully. Dirthamen knows my heart, and the hearts of men—there are no secrets here, no private thoughts in this mausoleum of books and stone.

I come to grasp his role in all this—why Elgar'nan, despite his apparent disdain for him, tolerates his cowardice and apathy, why Mythal's respects his council. Dirthamen's talents are inimitable. From his quiet refuge, Dirthamen couriers the hopes and thoughts of all elvhen, collecting their unspoken aspirations, fears, and dreams. His followers are his spymasters, who listen with their ears so that Dirthamen might hear the thoughts of all that reside here. "It's why they're so quiet," he tells me with a lopsided smile, a wrinkled finger crooked under his chin. "Listening is an art talking gets in the way of."

Dirthamen's skills are of interest to the other leaders who wish to know their subjects' minds, but he cares little for their machinations. Dirthamen's true passion is knowledge, and finding a means of connecting all people's experiences in a place elvhen can access. One evening, after catching me staring at the magic mirror in his library, he speaks to me of a nexus between worlds: a secret realm of possibility where thought hardens into action; dreams into reality. Dirthamen says he dreams of a library—Dirthara—a place where past learnings might ease others' journeys in the future. It is the last time he speaks of it.

The discussion of magic crops up in several conversations, but it is an age before Dirthamen puts words into practice. I learn that the lords of this realm, these spirits made flesh, carry gifts from their former lives, talents that most here would consider supernatural. Elgar'nan has his fire, Dirthamen his secrets, and all those that lead possess great magic enhanced by their connection to the Fade. I come to find—quite embarrassingly—no definite penchant for any school of magic. My control of the elements is remedial at best (though Dirthamen attempts to console me with the fact that I am a quick learner), and I have no extraordinary flair for the finer arts of divination, abjuration, enchantment, or illusion. Despite my dismay, Dirthamen is not disheartened. All we have is time—it is a mantra he issues at any failure; when my head hangs low in defeat. It bolsters my motivation.

Mythal appears with the changing seasons. Summer and winter have come and gone twice over. Spring heralds crisp, cloudless mornings and silent rains that coat the mountain top with fluffy snow. She appears unannounced, her footsteps thundering down empty corridors, growing louder and louder until they stop outside Dirthamen's library door. Although I am glad to see her, our reunion is tainted by a sense of urgency. Mythal is not here to exchange pleasantries—she comes with grave tidings.

* * *

"You've been summoned—both of you," she says while unfastening her coat, unveiling a loose-fitted gown embellished with elegant markings. When they remain seated, she claps her hands. "Immediately. Elgar'nan has called together the council; everyone is to attend."

"Everyone?" Dirthamen murmurs, voice rising expectantly.

Mythal nods. "He was there when I left. Come, I would not try Elgar'nan's patience today. He has been irritable of late."

"Of late?" Dirthamen scoffs under his breath but rises to his feet all the same. He glances around the room as if he has something to bring with him.

"Are you sure I should come?" Solas asks. "I'm not part of any council."

"He asked for you specifically. We require your skills sooner than anticipated." She turns to Dirthamen. "Have your studies gone well?"

"Erm, as well as can be expected."

"Has he been adequately briefed? On our tribes, their leaders? The opposition?

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Good. Let us be off. I take it your Eluvian is still working? Wisd—Solas, what are you waiting for?"

"This is all very unexpected," he replies, arms propped on either side of the chair. He remains stationary. "I thought we had more time. I don't even know what this is really about."

Mythal strides towards him and kneels. "You'll understand soon enough, old friend. Have faith in Dirthamen's teachings and my judgment; if this were too much for you, I would not allow it." A cold hand slips over his face, wafting floral perfume in his direction.

Solas frowns. "Will my participation in all this truly help you?"

"Yes. More than you realize."

He frowns again, etching deep grooves into the sides of his young face. Solas, eventually, stands.

Mythal leads them towards the magic mirror. It unlocks at her touch and glows dimly. The image reflects a dark corridor peppered with fairy lights. Dirthamen stammers and stumbles over his feet, the white shawl around his shoulders slipping over his shoulders as he struggles to find his balance.

"Wait, the Eluvians—"

"Have been working fine, Dirthamen. Have a little more faith in your own invention."

Mythal leads the way. Solas is the last to enter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Syl'vun'in - Tuesday


	41. viii

Elgar'nan's fortress hums with nervous energy. Mythal, Dirthamen, and Solas exit the eerie quiet of the Eluvians into a dimly lit corridor. They follow the echo of voices to a dining hall.

"How many times must we go over this?" Elgar'nan rubs his forehead with the butt of his palm. His hair has grown in the years that have passed and curl around the neckline of his burgundy tunic.

A tall elf in dark robes takes a sip of his drink and grimaces. Solas recognizes him as the guest from Dirthamen's library. "You are making this more complicated than it needs to be, Elgar'nan. Arm our followers and overrun the dogs! Our numbers—"

"May not be sufficient," the red-haired warlord snaps. He glances up at their arrival and beckons them to the table with a wave.

"Ack!" Yellow eyes flick towards Dirthamen. They widen in acknowledgment, seethe in quiet rage. When Mythal claims the chair beside Elgar'nan and kisses his hand in greeting, he sneers. "So much for Valor."

Elgar'nan regards him coolly. Mythal's whispers of encouragement and flattery keep him mollified.

The argumentative elf lets out a derisive snort and struts towards one of the room's many exits. "It's clear who really runs this operation," he grumbles.

As he passes, Dirthamen reaches for his robe. "Falon'Din," he whispers.

Falon'Din does not hear him, or perhaps, chooses not to.

The rejection wounds Dirthamen. His round face sags with disappointment. 

"He was such a kind soul before," Mythal comments gently, watching the space where Falon'Din once stood. "No matter, we can proceed without him."

Elgar'nan nods and issues an agreement, but extracts his hands from her grasp.

They are joined by three others—a robust man with small eyes and cropped blonde hair that makes him appear bald. Nestled close to his side—so close that she may as well be on top of him—is a raven-haired she-elf with nervous, blue eyes and a long, angular face like that of a newborn fawn. Solas cannot tear his gaze from the third participant.

Lounging over the back of a chair is a woman—another elf. Her long chestnut braid hangs over one shoulder, pointing the way to toned, tanned arms, and a cropped leather vest pressed against small, pert breasts. She is slender—Amazonian in nature, with dark eyes hidden beneath thick lashes. Solas feels something stir within him, a gentle heat that flares in the base of his stomach. When their eyes meet, that ember of longing sweeps into his heart and quickens his pulse. He looks away before long.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" Elgar'nan says. He sits higher in his chair. "We are all concerned about the growing influence of our enemies to the south. Many of us have lost lands, holds, and followers to their armies, to stagnant skirmishes that do nothing but hinder our progress. Ordinarily, I would vouch for a combined assault on their stronghold, but the narrative has changed. It calls for a different tact, one which—yes, Andruil?"

Andruil lowers her hand and stands away from her chair. Solas realizes she is as tall as he is—perhaps even taller.

"Are you not going to introduce us?" She points to Solas, exposing a jagged scar that runs from her wrist to her elbow.

Elgar'nan bristles at the interruption. For a moment, he has no words.

Mythal saves the conversation before it falls to silence. "He's with me," she offers, "and is part of Elga—"

"Why has he got a slave marking, then?"

"They are not slave—"

"Sorry, a 'mark of servitude'," she scoffs, rolling her eyes at this bandy of semantics. "Why is he here?"

"I was just getting to that." 

"Surely we should be sending—"

"As I was saying," Elgar'nan interrupts, silencing her with a glance.

Andruil mutters something intelligible but holds her tongue.

"Our opposition is dabbling in forces we do not understand—yet. Mythal and I have labored over how best to handle this development, and we have decided that it is in the interest of our people—and yours—to approach this diplomatically."

"Diplomacy? With them?" The blonde elf asks. His baritone voice is at odds with his effeminate features.

"We need to try, June," Mythal says. "This new power—it is unlike anything we've seen. It is not of the Fade."

"Sounds interesting," Andruil chuckles and gives an ugly grin. "And what? Do you intend to steal this magic for yourself?"

Elgar'nan turns his nose up at the prospect. "We have no need of it. What we do need, however, is an understanding of what it is and how it operates. My reports claim this fuel makes them go mad but imbues them with great power. If we can find out how it works, perhaps we might find a way to beat them—or find an opportune moment to strike."

"And you're going to waltz onto their lands, are you? Anaris despises you—and Mythal. I doubt after Falon'Din poisoned their rivers, they'll accept a truce from him, either."

"Our relations with him have soured, also," June admits.

"It won't be any of us," Mythal assures them. She glances up at Solas and smiles.

"This poor creature?" Andruil struggles to maintain a straight face.

"We need someone new—someone different."

"Is he a soldier? What are his gifts? If Anaris or any of his thugs suspect duplicity, they will obliterate him; and need I remind you that Dirthamen is not the only one who can read the hearts of men. They will sense his deception."

"Dirthamen has educated him, so to speak. If anyone can put your concerns to rest, it's him."

The table turns expectantly to the elf.

Dirthamen glances up in surprise still lost in his own world. "Err, pardon?"

"What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"Thoughts?"

"Yes, man! Your thoughts? On Solas' progress. His abilities. Are we ready to proceed as planned?" 

"His abilities are," Dirthamen trails away and lowers his eyes. A light sheen of sweat settles across his forehead. "His elemental control has progressed swimmingly, erm—"

"Any field of magic in particular?"

Dirthamen allows himself a giggle. "Not really." His laughter is cut short by Elgar'nan's penetrating gaze. "Bu-but he is quite adept with manipulating the Fade. And spirits seem to like him."

"Spirits…" Elgar'nan's expression pales. There are no more questions.

"If I might," Solas begins. He swallows as everyone shifts to look at him, regarding him as if he had just shat on the floor. "There is no point in hiding it: I am not fully in control of my faculties. I am not powerful like Elgar'nan. I cannot boil lakes at a glance, or make mountains crumble like Mythal. But their wisdom is sound—you do not want to intimidate your opponents with another great warlord. You want to courier peace, negotiations, and earn their trust—"

"For questionable reasons," Andruil interrupts, shaking her head. She adjusts the braid at her side. "They will sniff out your motivations as easily a stud does a bitch in heat."

"And they will see no duplicity," Solas says, offering a calm smile. "My motivations are not your motivations, Lethallan—I bear these individuals no ill-will. They have not tarnished my lands or harmed my people. I do not go with the intent to wreak havoc or dismantle their empires."

"They'll still know you pursue the source of their power." Andruil is as skeptical as ever.

"They won't. As I said, their power does not interest me."

"Then what does interest you?" She quirks an eyebrow and folds her arms beneath her chest, bolstering what little breast she has. The desired effect is immediate; Solas cannot prevent his eyes from wandering.

He clears his achingly dry throat with a cough before continuing. "I want to help your people. These disputes do nothing but destroy their lives. If it comes to war, they will be the ones that suffer most. I desire nothing more than to quell this unrest and give the Elvhen the safety and security they require. So let these warriors examine me—they will find little to compromise my position.

"It's true," Dirthamen says with an eager nod. "His purpose is pure."

Andruil knits her brows. She looks ready to argue, but when her lips part, she only manages a sigh. "Very well. When do you send whatever-his-name-is to his death?"

"Soon, but not now. Solas will stay with me for a time. If Anaris responds to my proposition, we will send him over." Mythal says.

Andruil taps the back of her chair and nods to herself. "Fine. Then, once you're ready, send Solas to my keep. We will journey together."

"You… volunteer to go with him?" Mythal does not disguise her surprise.

"If things go awry, he'll need support. Besides," she offers Solas a playful smirk, "I have a soft spot for weak things."

* * *

The party disburses. June and his partner leave first. Mythal and Andruil exchange a few private words before the latter exits into another vast room in Elgar'nan's castle. Dirthamen is the last to leave and takes his time reminding Solas of their lessons and cramming as many pearls of wisdom in as he can. When he turns to leave, he hesitates.

"You… have a good spirit," he tells Solas, lips twitching into a feeble smile. "Falon'Din… you remind me of him." Solas does not get to pry. Dirthamen scurries from the hall with a soft farewell, the hem of his robe rasping against the stone floor as he goes.

"There is one more thing," Elgar'nan says once the auditorium has emptied. He motions for Solas to join him.

"Yes?" Solas shrinks away instinctively.

"It's time to remove your mark."

Solas touches his forehead. "My…"

"Of course. I can't have our enemies thinking we sent them some low-born emissary. They'll burn you at the gates."

"We can always do it later, Elgar'nan," Mythal suggests.

"Nonsense!" Elgar'nan's warm fingers feel like hot coals around his wrist. The elf pulls Solas close and guides him to a chair like a lamb to slaughter. Before Solas can come to terms with the arrangement, Elgar'nan's hands are around his face.

They glow. And the pain is unbearable.


	42. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! It has been awhile, and I am sad to say, will be sometime before I get to update again. Work is just full-blast at the moment, with little or no time to rest. Also, hope everyone is excited for the Game Awards DA4 announcement this Thursday!

Mythal strokes a finger between Solas’ eyebrows. He winces. There is no pain except the memory of one—the echo of hot fingers burning away his mark. 

“Does it hurt?” Mythal’s eyes widen in alarm. She retracts her hand. “It shouldn’t—“

“It doesn’t,” Solas replies, easing her worries with a smile. 

She nods but continues to stare at his forehead. “The scar… are sure you don’t want to remove it?”

“I’m sure,” He has lost count of how many times she has asked since they left Elgar’nan’s castle. “It… is my reminder.” When she tilts her head in confusion, he adds, “of my goal; why I abandoned the Fade.”

“Oh, Solas,” she chuckles, emitting a light, raspy laugh. “You have not abandoned the Fade. It is there, as it has always been.” 

They both look instinctively towards the sky, taking a moment to study the deep green horizon melding into the afternoon light. Solas intimates with a nod his agreement. 

“It was… good, what you said—to Elgar’nan,” she begins, golden eyes flirting from foreground to the marble banister before her with girlish uncertainty. “He needs to understand—they all do—the price of their impatience. Having an external party offer a different perspective is necessary. Their opinions have gone unchallenged for too long.” 

Solas feels himself grow hot under his tunic. “I—I meant every word.” 

“I know you did. Truth… is hard to deny—even for old brutes like Elgar’nan.” She smiles a twisted smile. “Though I don’t know for how long. Reality is quite malleable. Eventually, Elgar’nan will create new truths—more acceptable ones—to cling to.” 

“And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

A Spirit of Justice cackles somewhere one the castle. The sound of its raspy voice echoes down the halls, shuddering into their quiet refuge. The hairs on Solas’ arms prickle in alarm. 

“What do you believe?”

“You want to know if I still stand for my people? That I still consider their lives before the privileged few?” She pauses. “Yes, Solas. I do. But—“

“But?” His shoulder slump in disappointment. 

“This task has to come first. We cannot fight two battles at once; I cannot fight both Anaris and Elgar’nan and hope to succeed. Once the issue is dealt with, once our people are safe from external threats, then will we change the hearts of those here. For now, we need power, and as barbaric as some of our practices are, we need their prayers and adulation—it makes us stronger than our opponents. You… understand, don’t you?” 

Solas considers her words in silence, wringing his hands behind his back. After a time, he nods. The gesture elicits a smile from Mythal. 

“That makes me happy, Solas. I need your support, now more than ever.” She wanders back inside, pushing back thick, velvet curtains to reveal a dark room speckled with opulent decor. “Come, we have little time to rest. Let’s fill our bellies and return to the task at hand.”

Solas does not follow immediately. He watches her disappear inside her fortress and turns to watch the horizon. He stares long and hard at the twisting green nether in the far distance. He considers her words and those of a Elgar’nan’s; the brusque strength and poise of the one called Andruil. Lastly, he thinks of the boy in the temple, of his dying words and sunken eyes, and heart filled with grievances. In that moment, he renews his promise: to create a better world, a fairer one, where those most in need are not left to rot in forgetting places. 


	43. A Void and a Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 It's been a while... 
> 
> Hopefully some more updates on the way! A little placeholder in the meantime :3

_There is a door, a door encased in darkness. It is the only path here, wherever here might be. It is Rosa's only option. As she approaches—drifts, floats, moves, for she had long lost the sense of legs or form—the door shudders open. Warmth and light emanate from this place—and something more, something familiar that hums with arcane energy the same way the Anchor did._

* * *

Rosa did not spend much time in the underground library in Skyfall, but she recognizes it immediately—not by the patchwork of old tomes stacked high on the wall, or the jumble of crumpled parchment and cracked phylacteries strewn across the desk, but by its smell. The Inquisitor takes a deep breath, packing her lungs with the aroma of dust, yellowed pages, and forgotten memories; with the scent of home. 

The rasp of a turned page cuts across the silence like a blade against a whetstone. _Schliff._

She follows the sound. As she nears the reading table, she peeks around the alcove of the library and spots the top of an open book suspended by thin fingers and narrow wrists dotted with freckles. _Schliff._

Rosa swallows, hears her throat contract and bob and expand as precious little spittle drips down her tongue into her parched gullet. She takes another step... and another. _Schliff._

Solas' eyes flutter meet hers, his brow furrowing with the effort to see her over the rim of his book. He is not surprised by her arrival. 

"Are," Rosa begins quietly, struggling to find her voice, "you real?"

His bald scalp throbs as he graces her with a small smile. The familiarity of it almost breaks her. It had been so long since she last saw it—the coy simper of a proud teacher tasked with a worthy question.

"That depends on your interpretation, Lethallan. How much of life is ever truly real?"

Her heart sinks. "Then this is all in my head." 

The book closes with a gentle thud. Dust billows from the pages, pooling around his face in a hazy cloud before dispersing. His smile does not waver. 

"I am no longer with you, my heart. Of course this is happening in your head… but that does not mean this isn't real." He gestures to a narrow space table between a crooked tower of books and an empty glass pot stained with dry ink. She takes her seat, never taking her eyes off him, not daring to blink in fear that he might disappear. 

"I have so many questions." 

He returns his book to the shelf. "I know. You always do." 

"But… I don't know where to start." 

Solas chuckles, dusting his hands on his trousers as he walks to her side. "Let's pick up where you left off, hmm?" He cups her face and strokes the skin of her cheek with his thumb. His hand is warm. 


	44. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into the flow, ladies and gents -- and damn, does it feel good! <3

_Mythal loved her people, and perhaps, that was where the problems started. Love festered, morphing into reliance, dependency. The responsibility grew too great, and like thick vines around an old tree, they began to suffocate her with their needs, their hurt, their plight. But I am getting ahead of myself… so much came before the fall._

* * *

It can be said that Dirthamen gave me the tools to live among the Elvhen; Mythal, the understanding of what it is to live with them. 

The Evanuris, even in their earlier days, enjoyed their isolation. Falon'Din was the first to vacate to the Fade, worming his way into its further reaches for more power and prestige. Elgar'nan was never far behind, never wanting to be outshone by anyone, and built the largest fortresses within the Crossroads for himself, a seat from which he could lord over the realm like a benevolent god. He seldom delved deep into the Fade, however. Unlike Falon'Din, Elgar'nan did not care to be reminded of his former home—or dreaded its dark secrets more than he cared to admit. 

Even on the mortal plane, the Evanuris erected high walls to keep the Elvhen out… but not Mythal. The Crowned matron of a budding empire walked a fine line between corporal and ethereal as both winged matriarch and doting mother. She once said that visibility was key to maintaining trust and belief—that if no one witnessed her existence, those that succumbed to this pyramid of power would surely abandon it—and the hierarchy that underpinned their civilization would crumble. In truth, I believe that to be only part of her reasoning, for Mythal shone brightest when surrounded by her people. Like any doting mother, she longed to be with her children, and they, loyal subjects that they were, lapped up any opportunity to worship at her mantle. 

I lost count of the years spent in Mythal's care. The details are a blur, but I remember the seasons; of countless summers spent on bare hilltops, winters in desolate valleys far from the twisting spires of her kingdom, which grew fast and tall like wheat after heavy rain. Much of our time was given to the people, blessing those who worshiped loudest, helping those whose cries etched themselves into the stone of her temple. We wandered the streets disguised as ordinary folk, enjoying the lute and song of wandering performers from far-flung places, gorging on roasted dormouse from tiny food stalls nestled in the very heart of the city. These momentary lapses in responsibility were few and far between, of course—there were always people to reward and feuds to settle; duties Mythal tended to with the utmost care. I assisted as an advisor, supplying commentary whenever demanded. It was a superficial role at best, something to keep me occupied during my long tenure. It kept me from drilling her about my task—the one I had assumed to take precedent over the daily chores of leadership. Anaris, Daern'thall, Geldauran—the names of the opposition plagued me; for Mythal they were no more critical than an insect buzzing in her ear; an annoyance she'd swat away with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. "In good time," she'd say. "All in good time." 

Before long, I adopted her nonchalance. I stopped asking about Anaris; I stopped worrying about the unseen forces gathering on the horizon. Part of me was glad. I was young then, still uncertain about the world and its occupants and forever haunted by the phantom pain of my scar. In my innocence—and ignorance—I thought these halcyon days might stretch into eternity. Mythal's gilded throne was blinding—it was easy to forget oneself in her presence. A skilled magician, she was apt at channeling my attention from the trick, effortless in her task of diverting my sights elsewhere. 

That was until Falon'Din took matters into his own hands. Dirthamen's twin was never one for patience. No one was surprised when news of a scrim reached the other kingdoms, but Elgar'nan was no less enraged, Mythal, no less despondent. Despite attempts to calm the fallout on the homefront, the threat of war came to Mythal's door—in quite an unexpected form.

* * *

"It's time to go," Andruil rubs the curved hilt of her sword. The train of servants behind her are stooped in half bows, whispering apologies for the guest's sudden appearance. Andruil ignores their simpers. 

Mythal sends them away with a clipped wave. "Andruil," she begins with a saccharine drawl, one Solas has become accustomed to, one reserved for demanding government officials or self-important paper pushers, "to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I'm not here to play games," The Amazonian's lip curls as she regards them in their plush overalls and high chairs. Her eyes drift over the remains of the pheasant centerpiece, eyeing the carcass with something that can only be described as disgust. Solas feels himself wither under her gaze. When Mythal extends the charade, dark brows lifting in surprise, Andruil _tsks_ and points towards Solas like a wealthy woman selecting fabric from the atelier. "It's time to entrust Solas into my care."

Mythal's friendly facade falls. "He is not ready."  
  
"He has to be." Andruil adjusts her weight from one hip to the next, folding her arms as if to guard against the cold. Her gaze never wavers from their faces, eyes darting unblinkingly from Solas to Mythal and back again. They finally settle on Mythal and soften, though her lips maintain their trademark sneer. "You did not think you could keep him to yourself forever?"

Mythal leaves her chair and turns away, avoiding both their gazes as she strolls to her balcony, where she and Solas have spent so many hours deep in conversation and contemplation. "I wished to keep him safe… for as long as possible," she responds, more to herself than anyone else. "You will understand that once you find someone you care for."

Andruil does not take the bait. "I will treasure him as you have done, Mythal. Do not forget that I will go with him. If anything goes awry, Solas will not be alone in the lion's den." 

The conversation ebbs into silence. Solas takes it as his cue to leave the dining table. Mythal watches him from the corner of her eye but does not move to join him. A pang of disappointment shoots through him, a jolt of anxiety as he wonders whether this will be the last time they see each other. It is Andruil, not Mythal, that consoles him. 

She strides towards him and takes his wrist, her long, bony fingers hanging like metal bracers around his skin. Despite her calloused touch, he can sense the warmth lurking behind the gesture. It settles his pounding heart. 

"We'll leave through your Eluvian, Mythal," she says, tugging Solas towards the door. 

Mythal does not respond. She is motionless, unblinking, staring out into vistas with head raised and arms folded. Solas thinks this is the first time she resembles the stone statues that decorate her temples. 

"I'll come back to you, old friend," he murmurs.  
  
Mythal dips her head. Solas thinks—hopes—he sees the corner of her mouth shudder with a smile. 


	45. The Lion's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday tomorrow, so I'm celebrating with another chapter. I just want to take a moment to welcome all the new joiners and thank them for their wonderful reviews. Over 100 kudos and 200 comments. I'm not worthy of all your kind words. Hopefully, have another surprise coming to one of the earlier chapters, so stay tuned!

Solas clears his throat and quickens his pace. The silence is suffocating, but Andruil's permanent scowl wards off any plan he might have of breaking it. 

* * *

His years with Dirthamen and Mythal could not prepare him for the pace with which Andruil conducted her affairs. There was no time for posturing, or dallying, no room for introductions, or a spot of refreshments. From the moment they ported into Andruil's domain—kingdom is too grand a word for the smattering of small huts and barracks that dusted the wooded expanse—Andruil was on the move.

Solas did not have time to take in the modest surroundings, the wooden knolls of bungalows interwoven between gnarled and ancient trees. Nor was he given any opportunity to ask about the occupants, the throng of painted women with cropped hair in thin clothes clustered outside her abode. She barely acknowledged them as they passed, even as they bowed and whispered soft praise into their chests. None of the elves seemed particularly taken with him—their eyes were for Andruil alone. 

They marched to a hut some way from the town center. There was another Eluvian here, a small, brittle thing of brass and iron. Andruil is gone before Solas can even warble a question. Tailing her, he falls into a desolate Crossroad with no markings or paths. Unlike the other ethereal plane he had grown accustomed to, the one which Dirthamen, Mythal, and Elgar'nan used as a pathway to one another, this route was empty. There were no other Eluvians here, not at first—not for what felt like several miles of walking through mist and fog. In the end, they happened upon only one mirror, a sister to the one they had entered, with warped iron frames speckled with rust. Across the eglomise tablet, a line of rune carvings had been scratched out as if scorched by magic. Despite its rundown appearance, the Eluvian responded to Andruil's touch and flared into life at the sound of her voice. "This is our last stop," she told him. "We make the rest of our journey on foot." 

Andruil was true to her word.

They arrived in a realm not unlike Andruil's—a heavily wooded forest filled with tall trees and thick canopies that barred the sun's light from the ground. Wherever they were, they were far removed from other Elvhen. Aside from the small outpost that concealed the Eluvian, there was no sign of life; no paved walkways, no murmur of chatter; just the whisper of wind pooling through the leaves in the trees. Andruil was on the move again, navigating an unseen trail without a word. 

* * *

"I'm sorry," Andruil says. 

Solas trips in surprise, stumbling over his feet like a newborn foal. He has almost forgotten what it is to hear her voice—any voice—after days of quiet. 

"I wanted to make sure we were not being followed. I don't trust Dirthamen's work," she continues. "He claims these mirrors are untraceable, but he does not know the enemy." 

"And you do?" Solas asks. 

"No one does, but perhaps I do better than most." 

Solas looks upwards, trying to pierce the impenetrable wall of leaves to reach the sky. Swiping the sweat from his brow, he abandons his quest to determine the time. "If it is safe to talk, might I ask where we are?" 

She hesitates, rubbing the tip of the scar on her elbow. "Tirashan forest. West of Mythal's lands—southwest of mine." 

Solas consults his mental map and nods. "So we're in _their_ territory. I'm surprised there would be an Eluvian here." 

"It is the only one we've managed to keep. The rest have been… removed. I urged Dirthamen to destroy this one as well, but the fool thinks it's unnecessary. If Anaris gets his hands on one, I shudder to think—" she tapers off and spits. 

They walk until Solas' feet burn, and his pace slows to a crawl. Andruil is reluctant to stop but grumbles an order to make camp. Though he tries to make himself useful, Solas only manages to get in her way. In the end, it is Andruil who collects the kindling, starts the fire, forages for berries, and evens the ground for the bedrolls. Solas watches all this from the comfort of his seat, uttering quiet apologies while Andruil completes her chores with practiced ease. Hours pass before Solas musters the courage to offer Andruil more than his nondescript simpers. 

"What's our plan of action?" he asks timidly, wiping the remnants of wild berry from his lips.

Andruil tilts her head to acknowledge the question, her eyes fixed on the fire. She tightens her fingers around the small twig in her hand. It breaks. "Did Mythal not instruct you on your task?" 

"She did," Solas says eagerly, hoping to divert yet another situation where his ineptitude is highlighted, "but your arrival was sudden." Truthfully, it had been years since Mythal had broached the subject of the opposition; however, explaining that to Andruil would no doubt pique her ire. It is too humid for a quarrel, and Solas is too tired to take on the huntress in a verbal dispute. 

Andruil smiles. It is not the rabid grin Solas is used to or the belittling smirk she so often wore. It is sad. Disappointed. "I thought as much. Foolish of Elgar'nan to trust his _wife_ with such an important task. Blind brute couldn't see how she'd coddle you." 

Solas stumbles to make an excuse but is cut short. 

"Falon'Din's betrayal has made this all too difficult," she sighs, tearing the dry skin of her lips with her teeth. 

"Why did Falon'Din instigate a scrim?" Solas ventures, happy to steer the conversation elsewhere. 

"Because he is a lunatic. It was only a matter of time before Elgar'nan's inaction goaded him. That and Falon'Din's desire to take over these lands, instead of living on the scraps Mythal left him." 

Solas' sudden silence is telling. 

"Falon'Din does not have any state of his own. He and his followers reside on the outskirts of Mythal's grounds, an arid landscape her people abandoned long ago." She points to the East. "Mythal _kindly_ allowed him to settle there when he and Dirthamen parted ways. If the opposition is vanquished, Falon'Din will seize it for himself." 

"Falon'Din and Dirthamen…" 

"Once shared a state, yes. Well, back then, it was no more than a hovel." 

"Do you know—"

"Why the two imbeciles parted ways? No, but you've met them both. Falon'Din is too ambitious. Dirthamen has no ambition at all. It was an inevitable split." She shakes her head and fishes for another twig. "It matters little. We have to pick up the pieces, before the pride and gluttony of others destroy what we have worked so hard to create." 

Her words stir his curiosity. "Your people," Solas begins, unsure how best to phrase his statement, "they are unlike the Elvhen I've come to know back home." 

She chuckles and watches him from the corner of her eye. Her lips struggle to contain her grin. "What do you mean by that?" 

He flushes. "Well, I don't think I saw—well, I don't believe there were—" 

"You are a lamb, aren't you?" 

Solas cannot place her tone or decipher whether she is ridiculing him or not. 

"We do have men—some. A few stragglers abandoned by their people, hated for their differences, their… _affliction_ , as Elgar'nan would say. But most in my care are women." 

"Affliction?"

She grins hungrily. "Elgar'nan believes there is an ideal form—a pure form of Elvhen. Anything that breaks that ideal is abhorrent. Many elvhen believe the same." She tsks. "For such an advanced civilization, we can be unnecessarily cruel to those that don't fit our model of what is good and right." 

Solas decides Andruil will not go into more detail and moves the conversation along. "Were the women of your village displaced by conflict?" Solas asks, remembering what Mythal once told him of the band of female warriors Andruil raised to be self-sufficient. 

"Some. Over the years, many have come to me for less: they've been ostracized by the families, expelled for loving one while promised to another, bearing children before their time, or not bearing at all. Some run from abusive fathers, husbands, brothers." She bristles—the stick in her hand breaks. Andruil rummages for another. 

Solas shudders, pulling the coarse blanket over his neck. "I didn't imagine such things would happen," he admits, even as the memory of his former life taunts him for his insincerity. _You know better_ , he conscience goads. 

"Ah, but Mythal's kingdom is a shining example of what the world should be. Prosperous. _Loving_. Accepting." She sneers. "You will see soon enough, little lamb. All that glitters is not gold." 

Andruil, swift as a hawk, rises to her feet. She pulls her bedroll beside his and nestles into his side, her shoulder pressed firmly against his. 

Solas stiffens at the sudden proximity but tries to feign nonchalance, even as the scent of her fills his nostrils, the aroma of sweat and earth wafting from her neck. He swallows. 

"It gets cold at night," she rumbles, folding the cover over her chest. "Now… let us talk of what is important."

They spent the remainder of the evening like this, tucked in close, whispering into the night. Andruil instructs Solas on all she knows about Anaris and his brood, and together, they devise a plan to broker peace with those that wished them ill. 


	46. The Elves of  Tirashan Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more walking, and we are finally at our destination! 
> 
> I've always been obsessed with the Forgotten Ones -- ever since I read that codex from Geldauran in the Frostback Basin. In my mind, I thought that they were the original opposition, the ones that really solidified the Evanuris as the true powers over the Elvhen. When Solas speaks of the 'war' at the end of Trespasser, this is what I thought (hoped) could be what he pointed at. Super pumped to write about these characters!

Solas dusts a fallen leaf from his shoulder and scans the path beyond Andruil. There is nothing but foliage as far as the eye can see, a mishmash of verdant greens and dour browns interwoven with bursts of color from low-hanging flowers. 

As they slip further into the deep, unknown places of the forest, Solas' thoughts drift back to his conversations with Andruil. His head aches. Knowledge, questions, thoughts, fears, ideas, and suggestions spill over like a cup filled too quickly. He feels bits of what was discussed evaporate in a wave of forgetfulness, protocols, and must-dos merging with faux-pas and must-nots. He wishes he had more time, that the task been given to someone elese—an elf with more experience and cunning. The closer he comes to his mission, the more his anxiety blossoms, the more eccentric his private thoughts become. 

Andruil stops. Solas almost crashes into her. 

"What is it?" she sighs, braid flicking like a hooked whip as she swings her head round to observe him. "I can't concentrate when you do that… _thing_." 

" _Thing_?"

Andruil _hmmm_ and _ahs,_ mimicking the sounds Solas can only imagine are the ones he has been making. 

He turns his face to the floor. "Apologies, Andruil. I'm just busy thinking."

"Thinking is good. In silence. What you're doing is worrying." When he grumbles to his navel, Andruil continues walking. "Come on then—out with it. What is in your mind?"

"It's nothing."

"I will only ask once, Solas."

Solas knows he will regret it, but in the end, the heart of Wisdom triumphs. "I am concerned about the stories."

"Stories? What stories?" 

"I've only heard hearsay. About Anaris—all of them. Some of the small folk have shared rumors of the dark powers they embody. Disease, terror, spite, malevolence. They thrive on the malcontent of others, that they—"

Andruil lets out of a bark of laughter that sends unseen birds darting from the treetops. She doesn't stop laughing for some time. "Oh, dear little lamb," she chortles, "you sound like a simple temple girl." 

He seizes up in embarrassment and indignation. 

"It is what Elgar'nan and his lot would want you and their followers to believe—that these are the terrible creatures that go bump in the night. They'll steal your women and eat your firstborn." She waits for him to catch up and rewards him with an apologetic smile. "They are just like us. They are no more terrible than Elgar'nan, or viler than Falon'Din… they are not demons, Solas."

"But these stories—"

"These _rumors_ were spread in the interest of harnessing fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. Without it, warlords like Elgar'nan could not sell his power for protection, nor Mythal promise sanctuary for those that follow her." She smirks. "People need to believe in otherness, Solas. You cannot rally the masses with moral greys." 

"Then… why do we fight them?" 

"Because Falon'Din needs land. Because Elgar'nan hates the idea of sharing power with those not under his command." Andruil stops and turns to face him. She cups his cheek, urging him to look at her, to meet her gaze. "This is important, Solas. For our survival. For your understanding. We are no different. These beings are cruel, yes; deceitful, yes. They have murdered countless innocents, ravaged our lands, hunted our followers… but they are not without cause. They are not beasts without reason. They hunt because they hurt; they pillage because they do not have—because Elgar'nan and his ilk will never share power. If you go into this thinking that they are monsters, we will never progress. Understood?" 

He swallows and nods. Andruil picks up the pace. 

"Andruil?" Solas calls when some time has passed. 

"Hmm?"

"If Elgar'nan is so terrible… why do you fight for him?" 

"Because long ago, a woman came to me with a dream, a dream to unite the Elvhen and build the greatest civilization this world has ever seen. I still believe in her vision. Unfortunately, for it to succeed, the opposition cannot be allowed to triumph." 

* * *

The trees begin to thin. Green makes way for purple as spots of the evening sky trickle to the forest floor. Solas cares little for how his feet drag, stomping leaves, dirt, and twigs with the grace of a well-fed sow. His mood has soured over the day, aided by an empty belly and aching soles that weep from dome-like blisters. Andruil has been little help, marching onwards in silent contemplation. Solas has become quite accustomed to the sight of her back, the shape and dents of her longbow, the black moles that pepper her arms—he has even named a few. 

As they pass the winding circuit of a dry ravine, she stops, sniffs the air, and draws her bow. Solas pays no mind to the movement, having seen her take this stance dozens of times already. 

"What's it this time? Nug? Hare?" he murmurs, slinking past to overtake her for the first time in their journey. 

"Solas, don't move." 

He kicks a pebble underfoot and watches it skid with disinterest. It jumps through a bed of dried leaves before landing squarely on the tongue of a leather boot. He freezes as a diamond arrowhead slips between his eyes. 

"Fenedhis." 

"Lower your weapon," Andruil says calmly. The drawstring of her bow squeaks as it's tightened. 

"Lower yours first, Andruil, Huntress of the Northern realm," the warrior purrs. His square jaw tenses, exaggerating the deep hollows of his cheeks.

The arrow dips. Solas flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Andruil clicks her tongue. "You've heard of me. Good. Then you know that my arrow never misses its mark. If you even _think_ of loosening your bow, you and your troop will be dead before you hit the ground. I promise you that." 

The warrior's posture slackens. Around them, the forest crackles in warning as other unseen foes register the she-elf's threat. 

It is just enough to give Solas some respite. The elf takes a step back, head bowed, arms raised in submission. 

Their enemy is a head taller than Solas, with broad shoulders contoured with lean muscles. With some distance between them, Solas can see he is shaking—whether from fear or fatigue, he cannot say. His face, too rough to be genuinely handsome, bears the familiar mark of an unfamiliar vallaslin.

After a moment, he grunts and lowers his bow. "What do you want, outsider?"

"We are here to see your masters. They are expecting us."

"We were not told of your arrival."

"That is your problem—not ours." 

Another grunt. The guard considers his options and quickly realizes that whether he believes them or not, he has little say in the matter. He turns his back and beckons them to follow. 

Around them,, behind the slopes of fallen trees, and from beyond the edge of the ravine, the Elves of Tirashan Forest slip from their hiding places, arrows pointed at their targets' backs. 


End file.
